The dream fog fades, and she hears the shower running in the ensuite. She reaches her arm across the bed. The sheets are still warm. How strange to lie next to Dean, dreaming about his former wife.

She glances at the clock. More sleep than she’s had in ages, but more alcohol too.

Pulling herself up, she sits on the side of the bed and stretches her hands to the ceiling. She can still feel Isabelle’s hair hitting her face. What Dean said about Isabelle wanting to quit her job aches like an old bruise. It’s lodged in Oli’s head, but it jars, a square peg that refuses to be jammed into a round hole.

Faint music penetrates the closed bedroom door. The shower has stopped. It’s not her imagination this time: Kate is playing the piano.

Oli quickly checks her phone. There’s a text from Lily. Come on, Oli. Call Mum. Today. She gets to her feet. She should call her mother, and about five of her old friends too. Mim’s baby must not be far off now, and Oli hasn’t seen Shonnie for months. Between work and Dean and the twins, there’s never any time.

Dean steps out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, sees her and grins. He kneels on the floor next to the bed and kisses her, running his hands up and down her chest and torso. Oli’s body sings without her permission, the strange intensity of last night and her bizarre dream giving into a flirty lightness. He pulls away, throwing her a regretful look as he starts to get dressed.

She puts on her robe and settles back on the bed, watching him. He bends forward to rub the towel through his wet hair. He’s in a good mood, and standing there in suit pants, shirtless, he is perfect.

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asks. ‘You were dead to the world before.’

She nods. Near Dean’s feet is her satchel, Isabelle’s diaries tucked safely inside. Once again, panic rises at the thought of him discovering she has them. What would she say? At the pool he surely wasn’t close enough to see anything but a standard diary, and it isn’t unusual for her to be hunched over a notebook. He probably doesn’t even know that they were in the cupboard. She imagines him in a fog of grief, blindly stashing Isabelle’s things away after she died.

‘So you’re out tonight, right?’

‘What?’

He’s bounding around, fetching socks and underwear then putting them in his gym bag. ‘Girls!’ he calls suddenly. ‘I hope you’re all packed and ready to go.’

Affirmative replies come from downstairs.

‘I asked Nina to sort out breakfast.’ He sniffs the air and looks doubtful. ‘Maybe she made cereal.’