“Walk?” Izzy sounds horrified.

“Okay, I’ll pop you over in the car.” Melissa steps forward and holds her daughter tightly for a few moments, inhaling the clean scent of her hair. Izzy’s agreed to go, that’s the main thing—she won’t push for anything else.

“Drop me off before we get to their house, though,” Izzy warns, stepping back. “It’s not like I’m some little kid who needs to be handed over at the door.”

Melissa nods obediently and retreats to the kitchen; she’ll catch up with Eve when she collects Izzy after the lesson.

The kitchen is in the basement of the house, next to the gym and newly equipped. The gray concrete work surfaces are pristine, slatted pantry doors hide a small room of shelves. The dark slab of marble topping the island was specially quarried, an immense fridge-freezer hums quietly in the corner. Paul stores the old stuff in a shed; he prefers new things. He’s always updating something in the kitchen, the units or one of the machines. It’s important for an architect to be at the cutting edge of design, he says. He shows clients around their house from time to time. Double doors at the back lead to the courtyard and beyond that to the curving walls of the landscaped garden.

A dark-skinned young woman in ankle-length black is washing the floor and humming a tune under her breath; her symmetrical features are framed by a hijab. The kitten, Venus, jumps out of the way, toying with the mop and shaking her white paws. Lina comes from Syria; she worked for colleagues of Paul before, other architects who moved to America. Her references were excellent. When Melly’s interior design business took off, they needed someone to look after the house and cook. Lina sleeps in their converted loft; it’s hard to remember how they managed without her. She’s probably in her early twenties, though it’s impossible to tell exactly with the clothes and the makeup she always wears. Paul pays her in cash, calling her up to his office every Saturday. She seems content. Lina looks up and gives a solemn wave; Melissa smiles, warmed. She feels close to her silent little maid, closer than to her daughter sometimes. They share more time together; she tells Lina her thoughts. Last week she found her working late, cleaning cupboards. Paul was away. She had sat at the table with a glass of wine, allowing herself to chatter. Lina listened and for a brief moment rested her hand on Melissa’s shoulder. She’s not quite sure how much Lina understands; she hardly talks but she listens closely, like an ally. Her presence feels gentle, healing even, though Paul would laugh at the notion.

“It looks perfect.” She glances around the shining kitchen. “Thank you, sweetie; did you remember the flowers?”

Lina nods. She squeezes out the mop and puts the bucket in the pantry; she remembers everything. The white lilies, the special scentless kind Paul prefers, will be delivered later.