‘I can go in that, yeah? I mean, there ain’t sharks or nothing?’

‘No sharks. Not this close to the shore. But take it easy, eh? You’ve had a big glass of wine on a hot day. Don’t go too far out. Make sure your feet can touch the bottom.’

Sam grunted, as though Xanthe were a nagging schoolteacher issuing orders, discarded her wrap and strode out into the water in the pregnancy swimming costume she still fitted, almost three years on. It wasn’t cold. She’d been expecting cold. The ocean floor was pebbled, uneven; she must look to Xanthe on the shore like a foal trying to walk, a complete novice. Little city girl in the big sea. She stopped for a second, swore out loud at its uninterrupted hugeness, its cunty beauty, the cheek of it, pressed on shakily. Once she got to waist-height she squatted down, let it all pool about her, not cold but still a shock on the overheated skin of her back. She tried swimming strokes, just with her arms at first, then pushed off with her feet, knees bumping along the rocks below. It was nothing like swimming at the Brockwell Lido. She was aware all the time of everything being much bigger and wilder than herself, the floor untiled, the force of waves and currents. There was nothing and nothing in front of her, and it was blue. The waves blew up, slapped her face, salt water up her nose making her cough and lose her footing. There was nothing underneath and she panicked, choked, wondered if she would sink. It would matter. It would matter if she did.

Turning herself around in the water, she realized she hadn’t come very far at all. She could still make out Xanthe’s face, a friendly arm extended and waving gently at her. She doggy-paddled her way back to where she could feel rocks under foot again and told herself she was a fucking idiot.

She was surprised at how quickly her skin dried off. Xanthe received her back to their picnic with smiling silence. There were vine leaves and flatbread unwrapped from waxy wrappers waiting for her, and she filled her mouth gratefully.

‘Listen, mate. I went too far there. You must be wondering what sort of psychopath you’ve given houseroom to. Honestly, I’m not – I’m not a risk.’

‘I didn’t think you were, Sam. I’d be more worried if you seemed absolutely fine about the whole thing.’

‘I just don’t know how I’m supposed to go about rebuilding myself now. What does a person do?’

Xanthe breathed out, reached into her bag and lit a cigarette.

‘It takes time, and it takes a lot of strength. You just need to be sure enough of yourself to have something to hold on to.’

Sam hadn’t smoked since she’d had Debbie, but something about the smell, out here in the sunshine, was making her reconsider. She motioned to the packet and Xanthe nodded, exhaled, continued.