I tell Goldie to “shhh.” Her eyes follow me as I go, reluctantly.

Coolness envelops, despite it being an early summer night. I am not dressed to be outside, in maternity tracksuit bottoms and a thin top, flip-flops on my feet. The thwacking noise of rubber as I walk is heightened by the silence. Shivering, I keep looking behind as though I expect to see someone emerge from the darkness. I speed up, fighting my natural instinct to be cautious. Camilla always leaves at least one downstairs light on.

I slide my key in the door but am thwarted by the chain. I’m not giving in. I try the back door—yes!

I stand still. The fridge hums. On a counter is a pile of papers, school forms (instantly recognizable by the logo) and a set of keys. A blast of air slams the door shut behind me. I freeze. I think I’ve got away with it for a moment or two, but no, footsteps thud down the stairs.

I flood the kitchen with light so that Camilla can see it’s me.

But it’s not her. It’s Greg.

Camilla appears at the bottom of the stairs, hair all over the place, eyes wide, her phone in one hand, a tennis racquet in the other.

“For fuck’s sake, what the hell are you doing? I’ve already rung the police, you stupid cow!” She calls them back. “A mistake. So sorry.”

When she ends the call, she turns her attention back to me.

“What are you doing, Marie? Do you even know what time it is?”

I look at Greg.

He shrugs.

“You and Greg?”

“It’s none of your bloody business,” Camilla says.

He gives me an awkward wave. “Hi, Marie. Hope everything’s all right. Pretend you haven’t seen me. I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, disappearing up the stairs.

“Thank God you didn’t wake Lulu!”

“The door slammed. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well, what then? Burgle? Breaking and entering? You can’t just walk in here on a whim.”

“Why not? You do what you like. I need to know. Exactly how it happened,” I whisper, as if Greg and/or Louise are listening in.

“At two in the morning?” I notice she whispers back.

“Yes, at two in the morning. I can’t sleep. It’s haunting me.”

“Bloody hell, Marie. Just try. Imagine what it’s like for me.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Speak to Deborah.”

“Deborah? She can’t stand me.”

“Try her. She knows. And Marie...?”

I stop.

“Keep anything she says to yourself.”

The walk back feels longer. As I approach the back door, I scream when someone grabs my wrist and shines a flashlight in my face.

“Oh my God, it’s you!” Stuart’s voice.

I can’t breathe. I haven’t had a panic attack since I was a teenager. He switches off the light, but I’m still blinded. I inhale. Breath, blessed breath.

He holds me around the waist and helps me up the back steps like I’m an old lady.