Nula watched them together. Poor plain little Milly was the spit of her when she’d been a little girl. The kid was delighted with her father’s return and with the gift. Charlie always brought Milly back little treasures like this; flamenco dolls from Spain, even a voodoo doll from Haiti, which gave Nula the creeps: she’d burned that. She didn’t like the thought of the sinister thing sitting on a shelf in her daughter’s room. After half an hour, the au pair took the little girl away upstairs and Nula and Charlie were alone again.

‘You know what I reckon?’ he said.

Nula shook her head. Maybe one of these days Terry would tell him what she’d proposed during his Morocco trip. And on that day, she was going to be in a shitload of trouble. Again, there was that feeling of sickness, of things spiralling out of her control, of the previously solid earth moving, swaying under her feet. The doctor had told her to join a club, do something physical. She hated the idea of that. She wasn’t sporty, or particularly sociable. He’d suggested she keep a journal, to express her feelings. She’d started doing that, pencilling in how she felt day by day, all that was happening around her.

‘I reckon you’re broody. All that stuff after you had Milly, realizing you couldn’t have any more kids, I think it hit you hard,’ said Charlie.

‘It hit you, too,’ Nula pointed out.

‘Yeah. I can’t lie, it did. But you know what? I’ve had an idea.’

‘Oh?’

‘I think we should adopt. What do you reckon?’

Nula looked at him. Christ, he was such a piece of work! Charlie Stone thought that anything could be overcome. Even a wife who couldn’t pop out sprogs any more.

Adoption? It wasn’t something she’d considered. But if Charlie wanted more and this was the way to further secure her position – just in case Terry ever did spill the beans – then maybe it wasn’t a bad idea.

‘We’ll do it proper. A government adoption agency. It’ll all be kosher, I promise you,’ Charlie told her.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

And Charlie hugged her and kissed her, beaming with pleasure.

‘A little boy this time, yeah?’ he said.

‘OK,’ said Nula.

29

That same day, after Charlie had driven off to town, Nula went looking for Terry out by the garages. He was often there, tinkering with the cars. He loved engines; should have been a mechanic. Her hunch proved right: he was under the bonnet of an old Alfa Romeo. When Nula approached he straightened up, his face setting in stern lines as he wiped his oily hands on a rag.

‘All right?’ he said.

‘You didn’t tell him then,’ said Nula, moving closer.

Terry stared at her. ‘No. I didn’t.’