‘You are being ridiculous, Eric. I need to write up my notes, let me go.’ Beyond Eric’s shoulder she glimpses Igor by the bonfire, half hidden by smoke. ‘Maybe Igor came into the kitchen for matches and forgot to shut the door.’

Eric turns away, his face tight with anger. Her own begins to build; Eric believes the best of everyone, apart from her. It could easily have been Igor, but he’s a trustworthy guy, according to her husband, he works his fingers to the bone for his family in Poland. He can do no wrong. Eric doesn’t see the way he watches them, especially her, how resentful he seems, no matter how friendly she is. Eve retreats to the house and Noah follows her in, collapsing in a little heap on his cushion. Eric’s chair is in its accustomed place at the head of the table; he made it himself out of oak. Solid, well crafted, the kind of furniture that will last a lifetime. She runs her fingers along the curve of its back; the smooth surface as familiar as his skin. The wood is darkened on the arms where his hands always rest. What is she doing? What madness to jeopardize everything she has; her marriage to Eric above all things. She’s lying to her children as well, and to Grace, whom she likes very much. She has let her relationship with Martin slide from one thing to another, star-struck, flattered, careless. It must end now, before it’s too late. She’ll speak to Martin, call a halt. He’ll understand, he might not even mind very much; neither of them made promises they couldn’t keep. They both knew it was a game and now it needs to stop.

The clock chimes two. Noah sneezes in his sleep. There’s an hour left before she has to fetch Ash from nursery. She flicks the kettle on, pulls out her files and sits on the floor with her back against the stove, next to the dog. She thumbs through each child’s work, making notes for her reports. Blake’s writing is better, fewer reversals, his spelling has improved. Poppy has written a whole page. Izzy’s handwriting is perfect but she has only completed two lines. Her drawings are disappointing as well, small, flat figures on the page, lifeless compared to Blake’s swirling battles scenes or Poppy’s vivid colours. While she is musing over the work, her mobile rings, startling her.

‘I just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’ Melissa’s voice echoes from the phone. ‘If you’re worried about Poppy, don’t be; Izzy says she looks out for her at break times.’