We’re only a few hours out, but Hope and Faith are in separate ICU cots.

As a surgeon, I’m used to long hours and lack of sleep, but the fierce concentration required for today’s surgery has left me drained. I’ve been running on adrenaline and caffeine for two days. The last thing I need now is to have to deal with Meddie and her teenage friends.

I made the assumption it’s my daughter and her posse in the kitchen because of the high-pitched laughter drifting down the hall … but it’s Harper Conway I find sitting at my marble island.

‘Harper came round to take a few measurements,’ Tom says, the tips of his ears pinking slightly. ‘She wants to order curtains so they’re ready when they move in.’

We have custom-made whitewashed plantation blinds in every room, and UV filters on the panoramic doors to the terrace. I can’t abide the fuss of curtains. They remind me of my mother.

‘I hope you don’t mind me just dropping in, Millie,’ Harper says. ‘Only Tom did say the other night that if I wanted to stop by—’

‘It’s fine,’ I say.

‘And I was just passing, and I thought, it won’t take five minutes.’

To judge from the cold coffee mugs and empty packet of Hobnobs on the kitchen island, she’s been here a lot longer than five minutes.

‘Did you get what you wanted?’ I ask.

‘Your hubby’s been ever so kind,’ Harper says. ‘I’m sorry to be such a bother.’

‘No bother at all,’ Tom says, equably.

There’s a gift bag perched on one of the island stools next to him, with wisps of pale blue tissue paper poking out of the top. Harper sees me notice it.

‘Kyle and me get a lot of freebies because of our vlog,’ she says, a little too quickly. ‘It’s just a shirt. Kyle will never wear it, he hates anything formal. He’s more a T-shirt kind of man.’

Tom opens the bag to show me. ‘Wasn’t that kind?’ he says.

‘Very.’

She doesn’t linger now I’m here, and Tom walks her to the front door. Their goodbyes take longer than strictly necessary: I’ve ground my coffee beans and pressed a carafe of Colombian bold roast by the time my husband returns.

‘Lipstick,’ I say.

He glances at his reflection in the kettle, and hastily wipes the sticky red imprint from his cheek. There’s more lipstick on his mouth, but I don’t tell him that.

I rinse my mug in the sink and put it in the dishwasher. Tom snakes one arm around my shoulders, his other hand sliding between my legs. His erection presses into the small of my back. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ he murmurs.

‘Of course not.’