She rolled tense shoulders as she sat on the tube ride home. A stop later, a man got on and sat opposite and stared intently at her for the remainder of her journey. She ignored him without difficulty; years of commuting had inured her to the weird cross-section of humanity who used the tube. Anyway, she was far too busy ticking off the list in her head. A quick phone call to remind Jack to be home early… in case he conveniently forgot… and she was back on track and in a more relaxed mood as she walked the short distance to her home.

Their house was on the quieter tree-lined end of Elystan Street in Chelsea, a two-storey Victorian house squashed between a five-storey apartment block on one side and a three-storey apartment block on the other. There was only a tiny pocket of a front garden between the pavement and the front door but behind the house there was a long walled garden, lushly planted, and so well designed as to make it appear endless. When the nearby apartments had been built, many years before, a condition of planning had ensured they were built in such a way as to ensure the privacy of their garden was maintained.

Before the children had arrived, Molly and Jack used to take advantage of this, sunbathing naked in the summer, staying outside until the only light was the tiny solar fairy lights she’d had festooned around the walls. The carefully-tended lawn was like velvet under their skin as they made love to the background symphony of London. And when they’d decided it was time to think of babies, she had a fairly good idea that Freya had been conceived there.

A smile lingered as she pushed open her front door, feeling more relaxed about the upcoming party. The smile froze as loud, angry voices coming from the living room brought her to a halt, her eyes widening in sudden fear. Burglars? A home invasion? She’d heard and read so many awful stories. Heart pounding, she’d taken one step backwards, preparing to run into the street and scream for help, when the loud voices changed to raucous laughter. Puzzled rather than terrified, she approached the living-room door and held her ear close to it. All she could hear now were low voices. With an indrawn breath, she grabbed hold of the doorknob, turned it and slowly opened the door.

Terry, oblivious to Molly’s entrance, was slouched down on the sofa with her feet in a pair of tatty trainers resting, ankles crossed, on the coffee table. A movie blared from the TV, filling the room with noise. Terry, a mug of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was engrossed in it and cackled open-mouthed as a character blew another away with a blast of a shotgun.