Tinted moisturizer. Mascara. Creamy pink lipstick. Blusher. The freckles had come out across the bridge of her nose in the last few days, making her look younger than she was. Her phone rang just as she was buckling her sandals. She didn’t take a bag – putting her keys in her pocket and her credit card in her phone case, she slammed the door behind her, thankful for the anonymity that living here provided. None of her neighbours knew her, or Rav. They didn’t know that he was away, or that she was going out, and even if they did they wouldn’t care. It was the polar opposite of the cliquey, gossipy cul de sac where her mother and Greg still lived, becoming more obsessed with other people’s comings and goings every single day.

The journey was smooth. Perhaps Max’s driver knew a better route, or it was late enough that the roads were empty, but it took half the time it had when she and Rav had taken a cab together. She rested her head against the car door, the open window wafting cool air over her face, marinating in the surprising calm she felt about what she was about to do.

Max came to the door before she even rang the bell. He must have had an alert that she was coming.

‘Drink?’ he asked as she walked in.

She nodded and kicked off her shoes. They went down to the basement kitchen and he poured her a large glass of rosé, the palest pink a rosé could be, then pointed towards the open doors.

The garden was clearly managed by someone who wasn’t Max or Verity. It was on two levels, the first an ordered, perfect lawn with uniform-length grass. Steps led down to a second lawn. Chloe felt the soft grass under her feet as she padded towards it.

‘I like that.’ She pointed at a double swing seat.

Max had followed her, his feet also bare, the bottle of rosé in his hand. ‘Verity can’t stand it. Says it’s suburban and tacky.’

They sat down. It was comfortable, still warm from the day. The seat faced back to the house, perfect in its glassy arrogance. ‘Does that mean I’m suburban and tacky?’

‘If you are, I am, too.’

Zadie’s parents had always thought so. Chloe smiled to herself, remembering how incredibly impressed she had been on discovering that his father owned Mangiamo, branches of which still dotted high streets today, clinging on in a world of sourdough pizza and artisanal burrata. They swung back and forward in companionable silence for a while, looking into the light, inky evening, warmed by all the lights from the house.

‘I can’t believe she’s dead,’ said Chloe eventually.

Max seemed to think about it for a while. Then: ‘I can.’

Chloe took a long drink from her glass. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘It’s true.’