‘Sounds like a midlife crisis to me,’ Abby said. She filled a glass from the tap and handed it to him. ‘Pretty soon you’re going to start tucking your shirts in.’

He sighed, which made Abby think she might be riding him too hard. She slid her arms around her husband. She felt Ray, but at the same time she felt the anti-Ray. Ray with the crusts cut off.

It occurred to her that it had been a while since they last had sex, and longer still since she’d seen Ray fully naked. The last half-dozen times they’d made love was in the dark with the lights off, after a box of red wine.

She felt Ray’s fingers lightly touch her love handles, then pulled away.

Other, less secure women might have felt nervous if their partners started systematically changing everything about themselves, but a wicked, guilty part of Abby knew this fitness stuff was just another phase. Last year, he started taking night classes on the mainland and declared himself an entrepreneur. The year before it was all about franchises. Next month he’d probably start writing that bestselling novel he’d been talking about since they’d met; maybe after some piano lessons.

All she had to do was wait it out. She hated thinking that, but that didn’t stop it from being true. What Ray didn’t realise – or refused to – was that it would take more than a few hours on the treadmill or a semester of business classes to get off this rock. Belport Island had a way of drawing you in, holding you down and whispering, I’m never gonna let you go, baby. Abby had learned a long time ago that it was easier to lean into it than to struggle against it.

‘There’s nothing wrong with trying to improve your life,’ came a voice from the hall, in a tone like strawberry shortcake laced with rat poison. Lori entered, clomping loudly in Doc Martens, wearing an oversized Nirvana T-shirt and a face as long as a wet weekend.

‘By the way, Eddie forgot to bring in the firewood and now it’s soaked.’

‘Are your arms painted on?’ Eddie asked.

Lori rolled her eyes. She was a beautiful girl, with straight dark hair and features that seemed hand-picked by a team of experts to match the shape of her face. Somewhere around her thirteenth birthday she had turned calculative and secretive. She was sixteen now and there was no sign of that changing. Still, Abby knew that puberty was like the rising and falling tide: first you drifted out, then you came back in. And if she didn’t, Lori could at least make a very successful CEO someday. Either that or a prolific serial killer.

‘I think it’s good you aren’t just happy to settle, Dad,’ she said.

‘Thanks, hun,’ Ray said.