He would, however, she knew, have noticed her over-compensation. Her own need to explain and justify.

“Sorry,” she said, the second they were in the car.

“She riled you,” he shrugged. “How come?” He started the engine of their Toyota Prius and quietly pulled out of the street.

“Old power games.”

“You shouldn’t play them.”

Sarah threw her hands into the air with exaggerated drama. “I know. Tell that to the twelve-year-old inside me!”

David pulled to a stop at a traffic light and looked at her. “Why didn’t you tell her about Eliza?”

“Ugh, I don’t know.” Sarah lowered her hands and placed one comfortably on his, slipping her fingers into a familiar tangle. “I guess I just feel wary of her.”

“I can see why,” said David. “Was she always like that?”

“Yeah. Master of manipulation. But a lot of other things, too.”

He nodded.

And Sarah nodded. And squeezed his fingers in full stop, pushing deeper inside her the nagging sounds of resentment and blame, the secrets of the TCR sealed still in wood. “Sorry,” she offered again, and this time David bestowed his forgiveness with a counter-squeeze.

Then he grinned. “Now, about this naked swim…”

Simone

Terry traces her spine with the tips of his fingers. She’s drunk too much, with him, but he is still standing and she is curled up, vodka and beer prying frozen memories out of their icy vaults.

“Don’t waste your tears on them,” Terry is saying, without having to ask. “They ignored you, they didn’t deserve you.”

She sniffs.

“They made you hurt yourself.”

She sniffs again.

“I won’t ever ignore you, you know. I see you. I always have.”

Simone sits up and arranges herself across Terry’s chest. The bruise by her mouth doesn’t hurt anymore and she presses her face into his shirt. His fingers still stroke her, but gently, not pushing for more. He never means to push.

“We’re two peas in a pod really, aren’t we? We’re the ones who see things how they are. We found each other. We protect each other. You’ve always got me now. I’ll see you right.”

She smiles at him. He’s right. He’s always right. His chest is sturdy. His breath steady. His arms around her, strong.

Veronica

The cotton of her dress stuck to her thighs, which were itching with an unprecedented fury. It was one of those rare English days when it is hotter in London than even Lake Como or Cannes or the blue-topped cliffs of Santorini. She had been awake all night, tossing in the heat, listening for the neighbours whose too-loud music had continued undiminished, and feeling her breasts. Even in the light of day, her nipples were tender and she was sure they were marginally enlarged. There had been a gentle throbbing in her abdomen all morning, and she had felt distinctly lightheaded. She could barely breathe with the hope of it. She had said nothing to George.

Since the dinner party, there had been a tentative bridging of the distance between them, a cautious probing of possibility. It was as though they’d glimpsed different, older versions of themselves, and were bathing now in that sliver of nostalgic light. They’d been snapping less, returning to a state of presuming good intentions, instead of the opposite. But if she was wrong, if she wasn’t pregnant, if this wasn’t it, the disappointment would smash everything.