A small boy in a cowboy outfit runs out the back door, followed by tall, athletic Andrea Walker and her short, stocky husband in his loud Hawaiian shirt.

‘What’s his name?’ Joe asks, in a low voice. ‘Andrea’s husband?’

‘Ben,’ Isla says. ‘He does something with computers.’

Joe strides across the grass in Ben’s direction. ‘Ben!’ He claps his back like an old friend. ‘How’s the world wide web?’

Isla pours a glass of wine for Andrea. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Wouldn’t have missed it.’ Andrea smiles, exposing straight, white teeth. ‘Ben and I moved back to Agnes Bay. We’re a ten-minute drive from here.’

‘So I heard! My mum gives me all your news.’

Andrea raises her glass. ‘Aren’t you joining me?’

‘I don’t drink these days.’

‘Since when?’

‘Not long.’

‘You’re not pregnant?’ Andrea mouths the words, nudging her.

‘No!’ Isla laughs loudly, and across the yard her mother turns her head. ‘Maybe one day,’ she says, smiling at the little cowboy as he runs past. She wonders, in a panic, if she’s going to cry.

The weather holds. The day heats up and everyone spills out into the yard. Isla runs in and out of the kitchen with plates and glasses, refilling the ice bucket, greeting people she hasn’t seen in a decade, repeating herself. Yes, she’s been in London ten years now. She works in television, in post-production, editing programmes. No, she’s not married. No, there’s nobody waiting at home for her. She makes her excuses when their faces look dismayed: she needs to fetch the mustard; she thinks she can hear the door.

There’s a lull once everyone has eaten. It’s quiet in the kitchen and Isla decides to let the tap run over the greasy plates, stop a while and watch from the window. It’s not a bad turnout. Her mum’s swimming club friends are all here, laughing at one another’s anecdotes in a huddle on the patio. Most of the neighbours have shown up. The men are grouped around the barbecue, supervising the sausages, which is all that’s left of the food. The atmosphere feels strained, she thinks, but that could be in her head. Her parents are keeping to separate sides of the yard, separate conversations. Her dad has that apologetic look to him, and her mum looks like she wants him out of her hair. Once or twice Isla has caught people talking in low voices, glancing in her dad’s direction. They stop talking when they see her. It’s hard to relax and ignore it. She is too alert, too watchful. She wouldn’t invite herself to a party.

‘There you are!’ Carol Taylor from next door taps Isla on the shoulder, smiling tipsily.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Isla says, crouching down to let Carol hug her. She gets a waft of sunscreen and lipstick. In all the years Carol has lived next door, Isla has never seen her without lipstick, often a vibrant pink. She still has the same shade of hair, despite the passage of time: a pale brown, the same colour as her skin. Even her eyes are the colour of milky tea. If it weren’t for the lipstick she would be entirely beige.