“Martin, listen.”

He opens his eyes, frowns at the unfamiliar ceiling, then sees her; the fan of wrinkles around his eyes deepens but she clutches his arm.

“Someone’s coming.”

He looks about as if for a place to hide and, pulling the duvet around him, rolls off the side of the bed farthest from the door; there is a muffled thump, a snort of laughter.

The girls are at school, Ash is at nursery for another two hours, and Eric is scoping out a project for a musician’s garden near Brighton and not due back till evening. Igor was left in charge of the bonfire; might he be prowling around the house? What if Melly has walked over for coffee? It could even be Grace calling by before school pickup. Eve gets up and straightens the sheet, her mind scrabbling for words. Sorry, I was in the shower—that’s what she’ll say—give me a few minutes. Yes, that’s Martin’s car in the drive. He took a notepad down to the garden, I think he was after some peace. While she makes tea for her visitor, Martin could dress, sneak out by the front door, and reenter from the back. She kicks his clothes under the bed, tightens the belt of her dressing gown, and sweeps open the door.

“Sorry, I was in the shower . . .” Her gaze lowers, lowers farther. Not even a child, just the dog, half sitting, half lying against the wall, whining quietly. Her legs weaken with relief. She lets herself slide to the floor. “Noah! What are you doing here?”

She kisses his smooth head and he pads after her into the bedroom.

“I thought it was Eric coming to kill me.” Martin begins to laugh.

“Not funny.” She retrieves his clothes from under the bed but he catches her hand.

“Come back to bed.”

“We can’t.”

“We have an hour at least.”

“The poor dog—”

“He won’t say a word.” He pulls her down, narrowly missing Noah.

Later, he helps her change the sheets and leaves with a book ostentatiously tucked under his arm. She stands at the door to wave him off. Igor has dismantled some headlights and has spread them out on the forecourt by the garage; he looks up and stares at them both. She ignores him and turns back into the kitchen. Now that she is on her own, guilt begins to lap at her in small, cold waves. There is a little pile of vomit by Noah’s basket; he’d come to find her like a child then, feeling ill. After she’s cleaned up, she makes tea and lets Noah into the garden where he lies down on the grass. She sits on the swing and lifts her face to the sun. It’s still warm, the dry summer has become a dry autumn; her eyes close.

The crunch of wheels on gravel startles her, she drops the cup, tea soaks into the bark chips. Eric’s truck sweeps into the drive; he’s returning earlier than planned. He emerges stretching and walks over to the shed. He hasn’t noticed her on the swing; she watches his easy gait, the swing of his shoulders, the play of the muscles across his side, familiar anatomy. Guilt swells. She usually tells him the truth about everything: the children, of course, and the little things of every day, where she’s been and how she feels, though she hasn’t shared that for a while. She could slip off the swing right now, approach him, confess, but the risk would be too great; he might never forgive her. The punishment would be a deeper, lasting silence. She stares down the garden to the wood, wishing the children were around, running in and out of the trees as they did all summer, distant company.