Life does not work that way, however. There is never a constant upward spiral because when I walk into Nina’s—no, my—living room to host the book group, full of burgeoning optimism that I’m on the right life track, sickening dread punches me in the gut. Because on the sofa—as if it’s perfectly acceptable—sits a person I assumed I’d never have to face ever again.

Seven

Somehow, I snap into hostess mode.

“Camilla! What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Marie.”

In the silent seconds that follow, I study her as if I’m about to take her photograph. She looks like she’s come straight from work dressed in a pale pink trouser suit with a cream floral blouse. Her fair hair is curly, I’ve only ever known it straight, and she’s wearing killer black heels. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I got splashed in the face when I bathed the children, so I wiped any remaining makeup off.

“You know each other?” Tamsin says. She almost sounds disappointed.

“We went to art college together before I moved to Toronto,” says Camilla.

“Small world,” says Tamsin.

“Not that small,” I say. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you get in touch beforehand?”

“I didn’t put two and two together.”

“But surely Tamsin told you that this was Nina’s book group?”

“Everything’s been a bit of a whirlwind,” she says.

“But you’ve had time to join a book club?”

“Tamsin was kind enough to offer.”

“How long have you been back?” I ask.

I think she says “a few weeks,” but it’s hard to take in because my mind reels back to the last time I saw her and the relief I felt when she announced her move to Canada. I want to know why she’s here, why now and why she didn’t attend Nina’s funeral, but I don’t want to ask her outright. I’ll dig in my own way. For now, she is safe, surrounded by a cluster of people—my friends—as introductions are made. I listen to everything she says.

I offer drinks before I get everyone talking about the book, but it’s an act (a bloody good one, considering) because I can only think about Camilla. She has a daughter. She is a real mother. She really is back.

I feign tiredness to coax everyone to leave as early as possible. I need time alone to process what her return means to me and what impact it could have on my fresh start.

“Where’s Stuart?” Camilla asks as I tug her jacket from a coatrack by the front door which I left ajar after the previous person left. “I’d like to say hello.”

“Don’t you have a babysitter to get back for?”

“Lulu is with my grandparents.”

Camilla was practically brought up by them as both her parents worked away often. Behind us, Tamsin walks back and forth between the living area and the kitchen carrying glasses and bowls, even though I’ve said twice that there’s no need.