‘He wants him to what?’

‘Shadow you. Like work experience. He wants to be an architect.’

Tom gives a rueful laugh. She watches as he strides across the kitchen to unhook his overcoat.

‘He just wants some tips, Tom. A bit of mentoring, that’s all.’

She reminds him that Erik is newly widowed, points out that Dag looks like a nice boy. Has a place at the Oslo School of Architecture, is proud of how much she can recall from the conversation. See? She’s not losing her mind. Not completely, anyway. So much depends on sleep, not a red wheelbarrow, it turns out. Tom is rubbing his face and sliding on his boots. ‘I don’t have the time, Aurelia,’ he says, more crossly than he intended. He stops, looks up. ‘I’m not into … all that.’

‘Into what?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘I work best on my own. If I’d wanted to teach architecture I’d have gone into bloody academia.’

‘No one’s asking you to teach …’

‘Maybe they’re not,’ he says. ‘But that’s what it’ll turn into. You’re always saying I work too much. That I put my work before you and the girls …’

‘Tom …’

There’s a tone in his voice that she doesn’t like. He’s angrier these days than she’s ever seen him. Is it exhaustion? Probably, but she’s worried it’s to do with Coco. Sometimes she actually fears he might hurt her in a moment of frustration. She’s so little, so fragile, and his anger makes him seem capable of things she would never say aloud. It was only a few weeks ago that he lay in bed behind her, his hands cradling the smooth roundness of her belly to feel each kick. He laughed each time he felt it. He positioned himself between her legs and spoke into her navel, mimicking the voice of an astronaut: ‘Earth to baby Coco, this is Earth calling baby Coco. Are you happy today, darling? One kick for yes, two for no.’

His slide into simmering fury has coincided with Coco’s entrance into the world, she thinks, kissing Coco’s soft warm head. He wasn’t like this when Gaia was born. Tired, yes, but happy. Not angry. In fact, in all of their years together she’s never known him to be prone to anger.

Or maybe it’s just the build. He’s frustrated by it. She’s watching him being ground down by it. And as for feeling he’s capable of hurting the baby – well, her maternal instincts are on overdrive. Still, it’s unnerving, the feeling that she would choose either one of her girls over him in a heartbeat. Maybe he can sense that, just as she can sense his anger.

He turns at the door, his face dark.