Perhaps she, who had been infatuated with Emil long before she met him, had forgiven him too much. He had not been overtly or intentionally cruel, but that did not mean he had not been cruel nonetheless. He had said words that had cut deep, and she had been the one to heal their wounds. There had been the hand raised against her because Emil was afraid of what the beautiful, golden-haired boy was. She had felt grateful both because he had not struck her, and because he had never forgiven himself for raising his hand; but perhaps she should have felt more over his having thought of striking her in the first place. Yes, he had held her tenderly in the night … but those had been the nights when he was at home. There had been periods when the nights away from home far outnumbered the nights at home: what had she told herself on those nights when there was no tenderness, no gentle cradle to be found?

In the end, she had left Emil not because she had stopped loving him, but because she had felt that they were partners in crime – the crime that had led to her precious, beautiful, golden-haired boy, her very own Everleigh, being taken from them the way he had. But had Everleigh not stepped on that landmine, would she still be pretending at happiness as Mrs Coetzee?

And then she remembered the anger that had visited itself upon her in 1975 at the Stockleys’ party, when she had opened the door to their sun room and found the two of them – Emil and his best friend’s widow, Marion Hartley – together, alone … not coupling. In retrospect, she would have preferred it if they had been, because there would have been the shock of it, and then the acceptance of that shock. But they had not been coupling. Emil was sitting on the window ledge and Marion was standing close to him, within arm’s reach. They were not touching … not yet. Marion, her hands palm-flat on the glass, was facing the garden, when she turned towards Emil, who was looking up at her. They did not speak. They did not need to. They simply looked at each and looked at each other and looked at each other, until Emil reached out his hand, his eyes never leaving Marion’s, and touched the hem of her peach-coloured dress. Emil’s hand on her dress must have had some seismic force, some pull … because Marion’s body started to move towards his. Still, they did not speak, merely looked at each other. Kuki anticipated what would come next, but it did not happen. They did not kiss. Instead, Marion ran her fingers through Emil’s hair, and Emil gathered her in his arms … that tenderness … that gentle cradle … that unexpected softness of touch: for someone else.