Last week, I’d described the playgroup mums to my sister—relaxed Mel, outrageous Tara, kind Imogen and bossy, pregnant Julia. I hoped she’d meet them at Christmas; Phoebe had promised to fly over, even though she was still angry at Marty for moving us here: ‘Do you even want to live in Canberra?’ she’d demanded. I didn’t know. The job had come up and Marty accepted, hoping it would be a way for us to return to Australia while avoiding Sydney. It was better than Manchester, but the downside was I couldn’t see my sister at weekends. Phoebe used to catch the train up from London whenever she could. Being back home in Australia, though, I was starting to feel more like the old me, and I was finally making some friends here, in playgroup.

These four women, with their chatter and their laughter and their advice, were helping me to become part of the world again. Even the very blunt, slightly intimidating Tara (‘I’m just calling it as I fucking see it’). When I’d first joined the playgroup, Imogen would say: ‘Language, Tara, remember kids are in the room.’ Tara didn’t seem to take much notice. And when they all confessed their parenting disasters (‘He scooped the poo out of the potty and smeared it all over the sofa—I just lost the plot’), I thought: I can do this, I can be a good mum for Bella.

‘I’ve brought Florentines,’ I announced, placing the biscuits and Bella’s water bottle on the benchtop.

‘Yay, chocolate and sugar—just what I need.’ Julia grinned and patted her ‘bowling ball’, as she called it. Nothing like the bump of my pregnancy; mine had been low, pressing downwards, as if the baby knew my body couldn’t be trusted. Mel rested her palms on Julia’s belly, waiting to feel a kick. I kept my hands to myself.

‘Bloody hell, Lexie, don’t tempt me.’ Tara moved her chair further away from the biscuits. ‘I’m starving and I’ve only lost half a kilo this week. I’m never gonna fit into my work clothes by January.’

I’d always imagined that I’d be back at work after a year; maybe even bring my toddler in on my day off to look at the exhibits. Now it had been too long. Work was a foreign country. Tara couldn’t wait to fly back there.

‘Oh no, not Florentines,’ Imogen sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Lexie, you can’t open them here. They have nuts.’

Almonds, of course. Shit. Imagine if I’d sent Thomas into anaphylactic shock. I grimaced and the pain in my cut cheek shot into my eardrum. The deeper pain—the shame and the guilt—was a constant.

‘Take them home, Julia. I’ll go to the shop and get something else.’