“Homework,” Poppy mumbles, and slips from her place, leaving the room without helping to clear the table as she used to do. Eric picks up Ash and puts him on his shoulders. “Bedtime,” he announces as he walks across the kitchen, calling for Sorrel to follow. No, his voice is too cheerful, he’d sound different if he was harboring her ring, suspecting her of having an affair; all the same her stomach churns with worry. Alone in the kitchen she texts Martin. Have you seen my ring?

Sorry, the answer pings back. On the floor somewhere?

As she clears the table, Poppy’s angry shouts filter down; Sorrel begins to cry. The girls, quarreling again. They have been on edge since Greece. Poppy is better behaved when her friends are around. Eve runs water into the empty casserole dish. Sunday seems a long way off; the week could be broken up. She removes the last dishes from the table; in the end no one ate very much. She could offer a short session tomorrow, supervising homework, maybe a word game if there is time. Supper as well. It can be a regular event every Wednesday from now on; she won’t charge. Melly can come for supper this first time, Martin too. She blows out the candles. She’ll find a quiet moment to tell him their affair is over; it will end on a civilized note, an event to look back on. She texts the offer to Izzy, Melly, and Martin and feels better. She’ll find her ring, of course she will. She can search their room in the morning after Eric has left for work, move the bed and the chests of drawers, turn back the carpet, look under the radiator. If it’s not there, she’ll search the house. It’s bound to turn up, it has to; a ring like that doesn’t vanish into thin air.

Melissa

A door slams in the night. Melissa wakes, her mouth dry with fear. Paul is in Paris, she locked all the doors before bed. She gets up, heart thudding, and runs to Izzy’s room, wrenching the door open. Her daughter is sleeping peacefully, her bright hair spread out over the pillow. Melissa leans against the door, weak with relief. After a few minutes, she gathers her courage and tiptoes downstairs, her legs trembling. The silent kitchen is softly illuminated by concealed lights; it looks empty but the stench of alcohol invades her nose, a vodka bottle lies on the floor by the sink. Her breath catches in her throat. Intruders? Paul returning early? Then she freezes. Muted sobbing is coming from the pantry. She opens the door cautiously. Lina is sitting beneath the shelves, her hands around her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks. The kitten cowers by her side. Lina looks up then pushes herself to her feet, still sobbing.

“Lina! I thought we’d had a break-in! Are you all right? What happened?”

“My boyfriend, Hassan,” Lina says through her tears. “We argued.” She puts her hand over her stomach, pressing in.