“Are you hurt?”

Lina shakes her head quickly, too quickly. Is she telling the truth? Hassan was probably drunk; he might have hit her or harmed her in some way. Melissa puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I said it was finished between us; he threw the bottle . . .” She lowers her gaze as if ashamed.

Her boyfriend sounds like a man whose anger turns quickly to something else, something more. Melissa begins carefully. “There are men who like to scare women. They get angry and then they lash out; they say they are sorry and promise to stop but they don’t.” Her voice is rising despite herself and the words begin to spill out in a stream. “It gets worse and they aren’t sorry anymore, but you’re trapped because they could take the most precious thing you have—” She pauses, gasping for breath. What is she saying? It won’t make any sense to Lina, in fact she could be frightening her. She takes both of Lina’s hands in hers, speaking more gently. “Promise you’ll tell me if he ever comes back.”

Lina nods, she looks miserable.

“Let me make you some tea.”

Lina shakes her head.

“Okay, sweetheart.” She tries to smile. “I’m sorry if I’ve scared you; you’ve been scared enough for one night. Try to sleep now and take the day off tomorrow.”

Lina disappears up the stairs, silent as a shadow. Melissa throws the vodka bottle away; she fills a bucket and starts to wash the floor to remove the spilled alcohol, scrubbing hard as if to scrub away deeper stains that she can’t even see. She scrubs until her hands are raw. By the time she has finished she is trembling with fatigue, her feet are icy. She goes to bed, exhausted. A few seconds later, the cat leaps onto the pillow next to her. “You’re not allowed up here, little Venus,” Melissa whispers, “but I won’t tell if you don’t.”

The cat curls up, purring loudly, a small, comforting presence.

The face that stares back at her from the mirror the next morning is papery white, the lines in the skin like fine cracks. Too much sun on holiday, too much salt water. She rubs in cream, but it makes no difference. Her skin looks tired, unlike Grace’s, which glows, or Eve’s, which seems lit from within, the skin of a woman with a lover. She puts the jar back on the shelf. That thing with Martin must be over. There’s been no more touching, no glances, no holding hands, unless—she smooths foundation down her neck—it has changed into something else, something more. They wouldn’t need to touch if they were sleeping together. Her thoughts jump and skitter like the cat when it’s scared. Eve wouldn’t do that surely, not to Grace. Everyone flirts; Paul more than most. It’s simpler not to know. Melissa applies mascara carefully. She won’t tell Grace, ever.

Izzy is sitting at the kitchen table writing in a notebook, the cat by her feet. The room looks as it usually does in the morning, the sun pooling on the shining floor. The smell of alcohol has vanished; last night’s incident has the quality of a nightmare, disturbing but a little unreal. Lina is piling fruit into the NutriBullet.