The theme for tonight’s party was ‘Oo La La’. When I saw Sarah after dropping the kids at Kyle’s, she seemed to meet the brief. ‘I made it myself,’ she said. She’d always been a dab hand at making party clothes but hadn’t done so for an age. A halter-neck with sheer floral fabric on the top half, black jersey material from the waist down. Kohl eyes, cherry-bomb lips, her scent of sweetened coffee, toffee. ‘And look at this, hun.’ She kicked one leg out, bent the other knee. ‘I can even dance in it.’ It was a beachfront party, an hour’s drive down the Peninsula. She was picking up a friend, and wouldn’t wear her wig until getting there, but – just so I could see – she pulled it on, adjusted the fringe, tucked away her dark strands. A Russian-red bob for an automaton designed to look as sexually appealing as possible. I loved it nearly as much as the blonde one she’d worn in Greece when we were twenty-eight, hoped she’d love the teapot, cups and scarf I’d hidden in the dining room.

I followed her into the bedroom, handed her a condom from the packet I’d bought.

Her raised eyebrows, unsure smile. ‘Oh, that’s subtle, hun.’

‘Yeah, look, have a good time.’

* * *

9.33 am. Sophie had drawn the fallow deer; Oliver, the octopus. I missed them, missed Sarah.

After getting her text at 1.27 am, I’d lain in bed, unable to sleep, wondering what would happen next for her. It was exciting. For Sarah, I hoped, but definitely for me.

She was high. Over the rainbow, in fact. We hadn’t done drugs for nearly nine years – maybe longer in Sarah’s case, given Oliver was seven and a half. She’d have taken MDMA, most likely, her Sufi-whirling past-self spilling over, the poet Rumi on her mind: Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free.

And kissing a French guy, ripping open a condom packet, not tearing the latex …

My phone – Sarah. ‘Hey, Chrissy.’ Her voice was quiet, consciously so.

‘You’ve got the kids, yeah?’

‘No, sorry … I’m still at the beach.’

Heartbeat, boom.

‘You’re meant to be getting them in, like … like, now. Kyle’s expecting you, he’s going out.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, Chris. I haven’t slept. I’m like a half-shut door.’

I threw off the bedcovers, stood, sat back down on the mattress. ‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m in our car. I spent the night with someone.’

‘Right. Yeah. Right. The French guy?’

‘No, the DJ from the party.’