She uses her forefinger to wipe her lip. ‘Abby, can you forgive me? I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘Go away.’ I close the door on her. Barely contained behind my rage are the feelings I don’t want to make public – hurt and humiliation and crushing fear. There was no one in the world watching my back except for Mark and Lou, and now . . . Now, neither. And in my heart, I think I knew. I both knew and didn’t know.

Woof is pawing the mouth of the mask, sniffing at it, pulling back to bark at it. He looks up at me to see if this is what’s required. I kick the mask over to the wall, scratching the floor tiles. ‘All yours.’

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Friday 21 February 1975

Abby

I spread my towel on the wooden floor of the church hall. The yoga instructor, wearing a long-sleeved leotard, pale orange, offers me a smile of acknowledgement as she pads barefoot around the room. A fifty-something woman with a grey ponytail moves to the right to make more space for me. Sun beams in a bright slant through the stained-glass windows but the open front doors invite in a breeze so the morning’s heat is lifted to the rafters, to rest with a pair of swallows sitting in silence above us. The room is painted white except for the bare floorboards. It smells of incense, with notes of shampoo, warm skin and dust.

I’ve dropped the kids off: two at kindy, one at school. I lie on my back as I see the dozen others are doing and feel my shoulders relax towards the floor. Sarah, Petey and Joanne are safe and cared for, and I am free. My own schooling starts Monday and I’ll use this moment of unowned time to consider how to make this year better than the last, to force positive change. I will exercise, clean and organise.

I tell myself that for this one hour I won’t weep when I picture my husband and best friend naked together. I’ll block that image. I will not obsess about whether I can forgive my husband, or whether my husband and father will ever forgive me. I won’t try to think of fresh ways to further explain myself or how I can make amends. Or who exactly is owed amends. I won’t think about Skye’s little boy. I’ll push down my anger that Charlie still doesn’t seem as guilty as he should be, as contrite, or committed to healing his rift with Dad. None of this. I will banish this writhing, poisonous viper pit from my mind.