At supper, the children sit together at the end of the table; their sunburned faces float in the dark above the flickering candles. Ash is asleep in bed upstairs. Sorrel is sucking her thumb. Izzy has her arm around Poppy’s neck; she passes the fingers of her other hand through a candle flame, back and forth, again and again. The children watch, mesmerized, until Eric moves the candle away. He chats quietly to Blake who sits next to him, glancing up at him often, nodding in agreement. Charley is unusually subdued. The incident in the pool seems to have taken its toll. Paul is yawning over his wine, Melissa crumbles bread on her plate, neither has noticed their daughter playing with fire. Eve glows next to Melissa’s pallor, a smiling earth mother, serving out spoonfuls of flaky fish and curled tentacles in a tomato sauce. Her breasts swing freely in a yellow halter-neck top; the nipples stand out like little tubes. Martin is watching her from beneath lowered lids; Izzy’s eyes flicker between the two of them. Grace puts down her fork. Her appetite has vanished. Melissa hasn’t touched her food, but then she hardly eats, her cheeks are hollowed as if with hunger. Eric pours glasses of water for the children. He looks preoccupied; worried about the house maybe, the fight to maintain it all. Grace closes her eyes; behind the lids she sees stones falling, walls crumbling, a house becoming dust.

Then Paul calls out and her eyes open; he is waving a bottle of wine, offering it about. Martin holds out his glass then turns to chat to Melissa about the beach they visited the day before. The moment passes. Grace picks up her fork; Martin is allowed to look at another woman, everyone flirts on holiday. He loves her and their children. He’s far too lazy to pursue anyone seriously. She can’t help smiling at the way his shirt strains across his belly; too fat and too lazy. Martin catches her smile and returns it; she feels better. He can flirt all he likes; he belongs to her. Soon they will be in bed, together, but then her mind darkens at the thought of hands on her body, even his. They haven’t made love in a month, maybe more. She looks at those familiar hands on the tablecloth, tanned now, the index still ink-stained; perhaps it will be different tonight.

Poppy nudges Sorrel. “It’s your turn this evening.”

Sorrel looks around the table then down at her plate, shaking her head.

“The kids have been taking it in turns to choose a myth,” Eve tells Grace. “Then Martin makes it into a story; so clever of him.” She turns to Martin, her eyes shining. “I expect Sorrel would like one with a dog in it. Can you do that?”

“Of course.” Martin smiles at Sorrel. “Let’s see, a dog. Can you tell me the name of a dog in your favorite story, little Sorrel?”

“Spot,” Sorrel whispers.