Nell was wearing lots of make-up too, for her, and a dress, something a bit clingy and the colour of violets. The dress was expensive, but she’d had it a while, and it looked to Maude to be getting a bit tight. She’d piled her hair up on top of her head; she was looking pretty, but anxious. And she wore shoes with spiked heels – they didn’t look comfortable at all.

‘Hi.’

‘Do you want to come down?’

‘If I must.’

Nell led the way into the living room and Maude could see Kym taking it all in, but trying to look casual about it, her gaze travelling around the room, across the bookshelves and along the beams. ‘I’m hungry,’ Maude said, ‘are we going to eat soon?’

‘There’s pizza on the way,’ Nell said, ‘if you want to come and help set the table.’

They all trooped into the kitchen, with Nell pointing out the obvious, back door, kettle, fridge, and Kym nodding along.

‘This is very good of you,’ she said, as if Kym was doing her a favour instead of being paid for the evening. ‘I’ll have Maude’s phone with me if you need—’

‘You can’t,’ said Maude, ‘the battery’s flat.’

‘Honestly, Maude—’

‘I can ring my gran if I need to,’ said Kym. ‘Or the Yacht Club? Would that be OK?’ As if now Nell was the one doing Kym a favour.

‘Sure,’ Nell said. ‘Yes. OK.’

*

The party was large enough, informal enough for her late arrival to go unremarked upon, and Nell was grateful for that, at least. She hadn’t wanted to leave the house until she was sure Maude was settled, and there was even a bit of her, she suspected, that didn’t really want to go to the party at all.

It wasn’t that she wanted to avoid anyone, but now Chris had abandoned her she couldn’t imagine finding anyone she’d be happy to spend the whole evening with. There was a reason she’d lost touch with people; she’d grown up, moved on, and so had they. You didn’t have to stay in the same town your whole life, for God’s sake, especially not one like this – small, insular, quaint. She could barely remember why they’d accepted the invitation in the first place.

She stood at the doorway of the Yacht Club’s first-floor function room, clutching a bulky gift bag, feeling very alone, and slightly foolish.

There was a bar running the length of the room and, at the far end, French windows that opened out onto a shallow balcony. Opposite the bar a buffet had been laid out and in one corner, a young man stood behind some record decks. It was all unnervingly reminiscent of school discos, and as if on cue an old Robbie Williams track kicked in.

Bloody Chris, she thought.

*