‘What about the condom in our bin?’

‘What condom?’

‘The used condom.’

‘When?’

‘August the sixteenth.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Fucking hell. ‘What about with Dave?’

‘No. Look …’ She shuffled forwards, put her hand on my knee. ‘I know it means a lot to you, Chris, but I’m not like that.’

I stared at the dark wall. Nikau from New Zealand came to mind, rarely left it. They’d spent their second evening in an open-plan chalet, surrounded by friends in sleeping-bags. He’d signalled for Sarah to stay quiet, fingered her, filled her with a kind of ecstasy.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you’ve basically just lied then, yeah?’

She squeezed my leg. ‘You don’t need to think of it like that.’

‘You’ve put Biddy and me at risk.’

‘You and I haven’t been sleeping together.’

‘We did last night. I’d kind of hoped we would again someday, you know, cos we’re married.’

‘I loved feeling close to you.’

‘Yeah, me too, Sarah, but fucking hell …’ My fists tightening, body trembling, heartbeat, heartbeat. I had to stop, have a bath, get some antibiotics.

She said, ‘Maybe if you’d trusted me more this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re always so … insistent. You never just let me go with the flow.’

‘Like Nikau, you mean?’

‘Like the man I fell in love with.’

‘I don’t want to die, Sarah.’

‘That’s not what Zac keeps telling me.’

‘Fuck Zac.’

‘Hun, he’s not my type.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I’m not doing this, Chris. I’m getting into bed.’

* * *

Biddy texted on the morning of the twenty-eighth: Making good time. Should be there by lunchtime! X

I texted: Ace! Love you! Just playing with the kids X

I threw the phone onto the grass, returned to the task at hand. The branch creaked as the swing’s four ropes intertwined. Sophie helped me wind Oliver tighter, higher, but it was getting harder. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let go.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘hang on … Sophie, watch out, sweetheart.’ I waited until she was clear, sat back on the grass, and Oliver was a spinning blur, occasional glints of feet and hands. He’d throw up and it would be my fault. Or he’d love it and that would be my fault, too.

He slowed, began to rematerialise – legs, arms, torso, head – started winding round the other way, came to a halt.

‘How was that, buddy?’

‘Again, again.’

I laughed. I’d won with my son.

‘My turn,’ Sophie said.

‘Yeah, Sophie’s turn,’ I said. ‘Come on, Olly, I’ll get you out.’ I lifted him from the seat – my fucking back – sat him on the grass. He fell backwards, arms behind his head. He was a gorgeous boy generally, but now, on holiday, even more so. Sophie too – what a cracker.