A thin woman with blond hair is sitting on the other side of Eve, fiddling with the scarf around her neck and glancing at the food spread all over the table, masses of it. A tall, sunburned guy in shorts is turning slabs of meat on the barbecue; a bloke in white linen lounges next to him, gesticulating with his cigar. He has one of those smooth, actor-type faces with lots of white teeth and seems to be watching the children closely. Well, at least somebody is.

They pass food, lean across each other to chat or nod, laughing easily like any group of good friends. They have no idea she is watching them from above, wounded and invisible. Thick towels lie twisted on the bathroom floor and she steps over them to reach the sink. There’s a jar of glitter by the taps and little fingerprints on the mirror. She leans close, inspecting her face: a cut under her hairline, a bruise on her forehead, another on her cheek. A thin stream of blood has trickled from the back of her neck around to the front. There are more bruises on her chest. She lifts her dress, there’s one forming on her abdomen where she was forced against the bin, an uneven triangle with irregular edges. Like Africa, and she wants to laugh. Blood is running down her legs from where his nails tore her flesh. There’s no pain, not yet, just the sharp stink of his sweat and of garbage. She picks up a pink shower cap from the floor and tucks her hair inside. The shower is powerful. She tips her head back, letting the hot water cascade over her face and her dress as well. She waits till the water washes away all the stains then takes off the dress and sluices her body, gritting her teeth until the stinging stops. She towels herself dry and stuffs the towel in the laundry bin under the others. There are bandages with little teddy bears on them in the glass cabinet; she sticks one over the wound on her neck then draws a fingerful of glitter along her cheeks to disguise the bruise. She slips on the wet dress again and shakes her hair over her forehead. Weirdly she looks good, very good.

She leaves, descending the stairs at a run as the dog barks again. She closes the front door behind her and walks around the drive to the back. Farther down in the garden the children are still running around the bonfire, leaping and whooping. Blake is hollering at the top of his voice though she can’t make out the words. No one notices her at first as she walks toward them. Martin and Eve are leaning together. The thin blond looks up first; the two men she saw by the barbecue are now sitting down but both turn and stare as she walks into the candlelight. They get to their feet, a chair is knocked over, the smooth-looking man is still chewing.