‘That’s kind,’ Eve replies, feeling guilty. The afternoon with Martin has driven everything from her mind. Poppy started senior school a few weeks ago; Eve thinks about her daughter all the time, sometimes she pictures her struggling in the classroom or sitting alone at lunchtime, but not this afternoon. This afternoon she forgot about Poppy completely. ‘You sound kind of hollow,’ she says quickly.

‘That’s because Paul’s renewed the kitchen; it’s so minimal there’s practically nothing in here now.’ Melissa laughs but the laughter sounds forced, it catches in her throat.

‘You sound sad, my lovely.’

‘It’s always lonely when Izzy goes back.’

‘I was just checking her work; her handwriting’s very good. There’s not much of it to judge by, but—’

‘That’s fantastic,’ Melly’s voice brightens. ‘I knew it would improve.’

Eve hasn’t the heart to tell her that good writing might be a bad sign, that her daughter might not have dyslexia after all, but something more complicated, involving choice or defiance. It could take a psychologist to unravel the problem.

‘Are you bringing Izzy on Sunday or is Paul dropping her off?’

‘Paul’s arranged to play golf with a friend, it’ll be me.’

‘Let’s chat about her work then.’ A talk could take time; Sunday will be perfect.

‘Noah’s poorly,’ Sorrel murmurs that evening, leaning her head on the dog.

‘He’s better than he was.’ Eve places glasses on the table, then napkins, knives and forks. She sips wine as she moves about the kitchen, stirring the food, glancing at her children. These moments before supper are always the best of the day, warm with the presence of her children safely gathered in. Ash rolls his red tractor around the surfaces of the room, making engine noises; watching him, tensions dissipate, her shoulders relax.

‘I think Noah might have eaten something bad.’ Poppy draws a neat margin in her maths book. ‘He’s been sick and there are bits in it.’ She jerks her head at the small pile of vomit in his basket, dark pellets amongst it. Eve rinses the cushion in a bucket then puts it in the washing machine. It’s lucky the dog survived.

‘Noah got into the shed this afternoon.’ She ruffles Poppy’s hair as she passes. ‘He ate some fertilizer but he’s getting better now.’

Poppy moves her head away. The plaits have gone; her hair is almost shaved at the back. She’d insisted, before the start of senior school. Eve had watched, sorrowing as the red hair fell in thick curls on the floor of the salon. Plaits were babyish, Izzy had said. There is a line of blue across Poppy’s eyelids, she looks older than eleven. Eve longs to touch her cheek, take her hand and kiss it, but what might have been fine six months ago isn’t now.