“. . . thought you have the right to know the truth.” Izzy’s voice has become softer and sweeter. She turns to go. Along with the sympathy there is a gleam of triumph in her eyes. She runs down the stairs, crosses the hall, opens the kitchen door, and disappears inside.

Grace’s mind fills with boiling hurt and anger, she can hardly move; a message pings through from Izzy with another image, a different one this time, a different angle: Eve and Martin are facing each other in close-up, clearly blind to the child who must have been crouching nearby, her phone on silent. Fury crescendoes. Grace begins to ascend the stairs, shouting for Martin; she doesn’t want to surprise him in bed with Eve. Martin comes out from Eve’s room as she reaches the final flight.

“Shh.” Martin hurries down the stairs to join her. “She’s asleep.”

“You fucking shit.” She slams her phone against his chest. Martin staggers back against the banister, his hands automatically clasping the phone. “Look at the screen,” she hisses.

He regains his balance and stares at the image. His face pales then flushes a dull red; for a moment she is disarmed. He looks like Blake does when she catches him in the cookie jar, wondering if it’s too late to lie.

“How the hell—”

“Izzy.”

“Jesus.” He hands back the phone, his hand shaking. “Why would she do that?”

“God knows. Who cares? The important thing is that I know you’re a cheating, lying bastard—”

“We can’t do this now; the children will hear.”

“How dare you bring the children into it,” she whispers hoarsely, “when they must have heard you screwing Eve for months.”

“Suppertime!” Melly calls from the kitchen.

“If it’s any help, Gracie, it’s been over for weeks.”

Gracie. Evie. Why does he do that with their names? Does it make them sound younger or sweeter, less threatening? Let him be threatened.

“Do you actually think I’d believe anything you say?”

“We have to go down now; we’ll talk about this later.” He walks ahead stiffly, his face crimson. She follows him across the hall and into the kitchen, trying to breathe slowly and calmly.

Melissa’s glance flicks between them as she puts a casserole on the table and takes off her apron. “Sit down,” she says cheerfully, though her cheeks flame; so she knew, or at least suspected. The betrayal stings.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Melissa adds, smiling. “I’ve cooked a lot.”

Eric has emerged and takes his place at the table, yawning. “Sorry, I nodded off in my study.”

“That’s fine. We all went to sleep, even the children,” Melissa tells him. “I think everyone needed it. I know I did.”

“I’ve been out of it for at least a couple of hours,” Eric replies, rubbing his face.

You’ve been out of it for longer than that, Grace wants to tell him; otherwise Martin wouldn’t be fucking your wife in your house, under your nose. She can’t say this, though, or anything like it; Eric is holding on to sanity by a thread. Their eyes meet, he smiles a brief, unhappy smile. Does he know? She looks at the lines on his face and the way his mouth turns down; his wife’s affair could seem unimportant compared to the loss of his son. He might have decided to wait and see what’s left when that loss is more tolerable. Eric is wise and patient. Wiser than she is, far more patient. She returns the smile with an effort and sits down next to him. She passes him the wine. The children file into the kitchen and take their places.