‘Sorry, darling Bella.’ I kissed my daughter’s cold forehead. ‘I just want to make sure you stay warm.’

The playgroup was hidden behind the local shops, near the church and in sight of the primary school. This small block was the hub of Merrigang, population 1641 at the last census, plus the new arrivals: our family of three. Firefighters had saved the historic heart of the village in 2003 but a hundred houses had been lost. Now, Merrigang was a mix of old and new, nestled in a semi-circle below the ridge. Paddocks stretched off to the west, bushland and mountains to the south. Over to the east, Canberra kept expanding with new suburbs of concrete and steel, but the Merrigang old-timers believed the steep ridge in between would save the village from being swallowed. Twenty-two kilometres to Australia’s Parliament House and we lived in a completely different world.

The Thursday morning playgroup had welcomed me in April with cups of tea and plates of cake. Unlike playgroups in the city where different families dropped in each week, here in Merrigang it was the same four mums every Thursday—Mel, Tara, Imogen and Julia. They had divulged the best playgrounds in Canberra, child-friendly cafes, gymnastics classes and swimming lessons. They’d moaned about their husbands (apart from Mel, who seemed to be perfectly happy without a man). They’d shared their birth stories. They told tales of tantrums and toilet training.

Some days, I could pretend I was one of them.

Inside the playgroup room, Tara was the first to greet us, with her short red hair gelled up; that meant baby Daisy had slept last night. Her other daughter, Zoe, was crouched by the doll’s house, moving miniature furniture between the tiny rooms. Tara took one look at me and gasped.

‘Fucking hell, Lexie, your face looks worse than last week.’

Automatically, my hand went to cover the mottled purple and yellow. I’d asked Marty to put tape over the whole thing but he said it would heal faster exposed to the air. And he was right—the cut itself was closing up, though the bruising had crept outwards.

I hoped the children hadn’t heard Tara’s swear word.

‘How’s Bella coping with the cast?’ Tara glanced over at my daughter, who was on the carpet rummaging through the dressing-up box. ‘I bet your hottie hubby has been a bloody legend at bath time.’

Ha—Marty, the busy paediatrician, was never home by bath time. Too busy looking after other people’s kids. Since Tara had met him on the ridge a month ago, she’d mentioned him every week at playgroup. Once or twice had been flattering.

Before I could answer Tara, her daughter screamed, ‘GIVE IT BACK!’

One of Imogen’s twins had grabbed all the furniture from the doll’s house and dumped it into the back of a tipper truck which he was pushing along the floor towards the door.