The street smelled of evening meals being prepared behind dozens of glowing, shrouded windows. Steph swung through the iron gate that led down to Chris and Vicky’s separate entrance. Servants’ entrance, she remembered Chris quipping awkwardly when they’d first met, as he’d dragged a mattress down the narrow stone steps. It seemed extra dark down there now, the night pooling in the small, weed-riddled space in front of the basement door. There was a whiff of blocked drains, which would raise eyebrows among their more street-proud neighbors.

Steph rang the spluttery bell. Faint music leaked out as she waited—Pink Floyd maybe. She was about to press again when the door opened and Chris stood there in jeans and a gray hoodie. He was slightly younger than Steph, with short dark hair, attractive eyes, and almost always a light spray of stubble on his face. On the occasions she saw him clean-shaven, she would puzzle over what was different. Now his hair and skin glistened slightly, as if damp.

He stood a pace or two back, as though braced for another reprimand. The memory of their last conversation bristled between them.

It must have been about a month ago. They’d seen each other on the street one morning, both de-icing their cars after a frosty February night. Steph hadn’t intended to confront him but something had been niggling at her. She’d had a restless night, and her fingers were cold, her mood unusually gray.

Freya seems to have had an awful lot of lessons, she’d found herself saying, her voice sharpened by the chill in the air. She’d tried to lighten her tone as she’d added, Feels like I’ve been handing cash over to her for months and months! Tell me she’s ready to take her test.

Chris had paused as he’d cleared ice from the logo on his navy car. His breath had clouded in front of him but no words had followed. He’d seemed to look meaningfully at Steph’s BMW, emerging from beneath its own layer of white.

Eventually he’d said, She’s getting there.

Steph had been able to hear his gritted teeth, grinding away any lightheartedness.

From what I can see she’s pretty competent, she’d said. I hope you’re not spinning things out.

Chris’s expression had tightened and Steph had regretted being so blunt. She’d been thinking for weeks that maybe Chris was taking advantage of them, charging for unnecessary lessons, and Paul had agreed with her, in his own semi-distracted way. But once she’d blurted it out she’d begun to doubt herself.

That’s not the way I do business, Chris had said, with more anger than Steph had expected. He’d always seemed a mild-mannered guy, always greeted her with the same quiet smile. Why was she creating this awkwardness? Why hadn’t she just let it slide?