I had ample time to make arrangements for the party; work was slow at this time of year, my days unnaturally clear, full of space. I could hover around the boys, drop them off and pick them up every day. This was the ideal, I’d supposed. As a child, my mother had rarely picked me up from school: she was too busy working. Sometimes, both of them went out in the evenings, putting me to bed without saying anything. Once, I’d woken up to a babysitter I had never seen before, a teenage boy, his long legs a sharp V on our sofa. I was embarrassed in my thin nightie, no pants, my hair tangled with sleep.

I would do things differently, I’d promised myself. I would be there. But so often, my children seemed restless, bored with my company, as though they’d rather I was someone else. And when there was no work, I was left like this, a woman of leisure, the house and I staring at each other through every empty hour. At least, I’d realized, the party would give me something to do.

On the day before Christmas Eve, I cycled to the shops to buy a few extra supplies. Paddy and Jake were at home, the television murmuring into dim rooms. Ted was in his child seat behind me, singing a long and complex song about death.

Some people die of canceeeer, he intoned, his little voice lifting as we went over a bump in the road. And some die of . . . BUUUM! This last word was delivered in a triumphant, tuneless boom. A couple turned as we passed them by: from the front, you couldn’t see a child, so it looked, at first, as if I was singing these songs to myself.

Everything about the preparations reminded me of last year, of the strangeness of having one of Jake’s colleagues at our Christmas drinks: he had never invited any of them before. But Vanessa lived in the same town, she was local. She had just arrived in Jake’s department from a university in Scotland: he was being friendly, he was helping her settle in. These were the phrases he used, at the beginning, when the coffees and lunches and then evening drinks were happening. He had been perfectly transparent, open, in many ways back to his old self, the sweet-­breathed, clean-­underwear boy I’d met years ago.

In the supermarket, as I put the mulled wine in the basket, I remembered Vanessa’s question last year: This is lovely, Lucy. Did you make it yourself?