Flicker, flicker. Food on the table. A fruit cake, a chocolate cake, cupcakes. Lemon drizzle then a sponge cake smothered in strawberries and cream. There are lots of Martin arriving and leaving, books under his arm, blowing kisses to the camera. His shirt becomes tighter, all that cake.

Bonfires flare in the background; Eric made so many, there was a bonfire every Sunday to burn dead stuff from the garden; the children loved them, begged him for them, danced around them. There’s one long shot of them running into the woods, disappearing among the trees, bleached out by the light like little ghosts. Eve was filming from the veranda by the house; so far away that you can’t really see what they are doing, but then, none of us saw what was happening at the time. We weren’t looking. It seems incredible now, when you think about it, that we were all too busy to see what was right in front of our eyes.

4. July

Eve

The holidays arrive with a bang. Ash’s birthday party. Everyone’s coming: all the kids, plus Melly, Paul, and Martin. Grace hopes to join them after work. That’s twelve, counting Eve’s own family.

The kitchen is messy, messier than usual. The girls hang around Eve as she rolls dough, smooths icing, and pipes cream. Scraps of pastry litter the table, lemon halves lie on the floor and eggshells in the sink. Eve’s face is wet with sweat. The kitchen is a furnace. At lunchtime the children are hungry. Poppy asks for food, pushing against her mother impatiently. She gives up after a while, grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, and goes outside. Sorrel follows. Eve leans her elbows on the windowsill to watch, blowing the hair from her eyes, her hands sticky with icing. The girls trail after Eric, who is sawing wood and hammering lengths together to make the roof of a playhouse. They clamber over the planks, used to his silences; his quiet focus settles them down. Sorrel squats near him, patting sawdust into cakes on a length of wood. Poppy sits in the shade eating her apple and watching closely. The little house is taking shape quickly as if by magic; Ash’s birthday present, due to be unveiled at the party later. The slide and swing have arrived and Igor is assembling them, grunting with effort.

Eve remembers her cooking and turns to the oven with a gasp. The papery cases of filo pastry are dark brown at the edges; she throws them away and starts again. They scorch again. On the third try they are perfect. She fills them with lemon cream, fresh dill, and tiny shrimp. Martin likes fish. She’s made the bouillabaisse, marinated the salmon, and baked crab patties, all with him in mind. Ash climbs on the table. He runs his fingers through a glistening heap of broad beans in oil, pushes his hands in her mouth, makes a face. She laughs and lifts him down, holding him to her for a moment, the small heart beating against her hands as he wriggles. She breathes in the warm smell of his hair as she sets him on the floor. Released, he tumbles into the cushions on top of the dog. She takes the cream from the fridge, then purees the raspberries. She is folding them together, absorbed by the red bleeding into the white, when Eric comes in from the garden, his face dripping with sweat. Noah runs to him limping slightly, wagging his tail. Eric glances at him as he crosses to the fridge, the bottles jangling as he yanks open the door. He drains half a liter of orange juice from the carton then puts it down.