It’s a mild night. Climate change has thrust schizophrenic weather patterns upon Norway, so that the old concept of winter clothes and summer clothes does not apply. She puts on her robe and slippers and heads downstairs to the kitchen. She stands by the window for a few moments, looking out at the trees, at their almost-house. The sky is a strange colour – navy streaked with yellow. The trees are usually troubled by wind, ruffled by its many hands, but tonight they are still. As she cranes to get a better look outside, there it is, a flicker of aurora borealis. The yellow streaks deepen to a rich stripe of emerald green tinged with pink. It begins to sway, like a river in the sky, then splits into two separate strands that bifurcate across the sky. She gives a gasp. Never has she seen the Northern Lights. Not even as a child, when they went north. She wants to run back upstairs and wake the children, wake Tom, wake Clive and Derry, but then she catches sight of the kitchen clock and considers that at this time of night, no one is going to thank her for waking them up. And the thought of trying to get Gaia back to sleep after such excitement puts her right off. So she stands there, relishing the experience of being the only person for miles to see this sight, as though the heavens are dancing just for her.

‘Nightcap?’ a voice says. She jumps and turns around to see Clive in the doorway. He doesn’t look like he’s even been to bed.

‘You scared me,’ she says. ‘What are you still doing up? It’s three in the bloody morning.’

‘Bloody reading, that’s what.’ He holds up the book that’s been tucked under his arm. A Stephen King novel. It.

She laughs and stammers about the Northern Lights, but he ducks into the pantry, leaving her to watch the green glow fade back to sky. Once he’s filched a bag of almonds and a bottle of gin he pulls a chair back from the dining table – she grimaces as it makes a loud scrape against the floor and hopes it doesn’t wake Coco – then sits down and pours himself a glass.

‘I think I’ll join you,’ she says. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. You’ll need a …’

‘Glass?’ she says, plucking one from the cupboard. He grins, and she sits down opposite and allows him to pour her a generous shot.

‘I’d never have taken you for a midnight drinker,’ Clive says once she’s drained it.

‘I’d never have taken you for a Stephen King fan.’

He grins, shrugs. ‘Won’t alcohol affect the …’ His eyes fall to her chest before he can catch himself. He laughs and covers his eyes, embarrassed, with a hand. ‘Sorry.’