‘Okay, okay, I’m outrageous—but I make you laugh, right?’

Marty found himself smiling along as his wife joked with this woman. Lexie had called the playgroup mums her ‘life-line’ and maybe she was right—he hadn’t heard her laugh like this in years. Tara seemed fun, the sort of person who swept others along with her enthusiasm. Lexie needed a friend like that. After the move to England, she’d lost contact with almost everyone. Sometimes he blamed the friends; sometimes he blamed Lexie. Sometimes he blamed himself.

Until now, Marty hadn’t met any of the playgroup mums and struggled to keep track of their names and their kids. Although, recalling one of Lexie’s stories, he was sure Tara must be the mum who had dropped the f-bomb about a mouldy strawberry and all the toddlers had chanted the word after her.

‘I’ve just gone back to running,’ Tara explained to him. ‘It’s killing me. But I need to get rid of the baby belly and fit into my old work clothes. God, I wish I was skinny like you, Lexie.’

The weight had fallen off his wife without him noticing. But then one night, as he’d reached for her in bed, Marty had felt the sharpness of her hipbone. And when he’d started to look properly, he didn’t know how he’d missed it—the jutting ridge of her collarbone, the outline of her ribs, the hollows under her eyes and cheeks.

‘Where’s Zoe?’ Bella piped up. ‘Is she sick?’

‘She’s home with her dad, and she’s finally better. You’ll see her on Thursday.’ Tara turned back to Marty. ‘Tonsillitis—she keeps getting it. Do you think she should have her tonsils out?’

‘Depends on the frequency and severity. What does your GP say?’

‘She won’t give me a straight answer.’ Tara sighed. ‘But I can’t have Zoe sick every second week when I go back to work.’

‘Has the GP referred you to an ENT specialist?’

‘No, should I ask her for one?’

‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea. It might take a few months to get in, so ring for an appointment as soon as you have a name.’

‘Can you pull any strings to get me in faster, Dr Marty?’ Tara tilted her head to one side and batted her eyelashes at him.

‘I told you she’s outrageous.’ Lexie giggled again.

‘Well, it’s worth a try.’ Tara shrugged. ‘I need you on speed dial, Dr Marty. My hubby’s useless except if you want some policy advice on trade legislation.’

The talk quickly moved back to Tara’s children. The baby had been awake for hours last night—did Marty think she might be lactose intolerant? He outlined the symptoms, and tried to head off any further questions by looking at the sky.