Melanie had been with her son, a quiet, sweet pale boy called Neil. It wasn’t long after Bess’s miscarriage and Jake and Natalie were larking around, in and out of the kerb, tapping each other in an irritatingly raucous game of tag and then coming to rest behind her legs until the other reached around to make contact – all this while she tried to listen to Melanie going into great detail about her planned extension and the paint scheme she had chosen. Natalie had jumped on to Neil’s back and laughed loudly, and Melanie had stared at Bess’s daughter, flicked her hair over her shoulder and said something that pulled the plug on Bess’s fragile self-confidence, something that fired a bolt of shame through her very core, as all the self-belief instilled in her by Mario’s love washed away,

‘Well, there’s no doubt who she takes after.’ Melanie had smiled, a mean smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Like mother, like daughter, eh? Seems she likes the company of the boys too . . .’ And she had winked. Bess had looked at her beautiful girl and felt her insides shrink and, just like that, she was the girl outside the rugby club, the girl who felt exposed, vulnerable, and her biggest fear was that this kind of talk might reach the ears of her kids. It was a reminder that in their town, these rumours, these hurtful words and snippets of gossip still lived and while she might be able to hide in a school canteen or supermarket staffroom, she couldn’t outrun them. She had walked home in silence, while Jake and Natalie laughed and ran around her in circles. Smiling at them meekly, her throat had almost closed with all the grief she struggled to contain.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Bess knew that the future depended on her being open with Mario, no matter how terrified she was at the prospect. She needed to find the courage to restore them to happiness. The Maxwells, she could now see, had jack shit compared to her. Even Michelle with her high-end life, Bess didn’t envy – how could she, when she had her husband, kids and Chutney by her side . . . ?

Her phone rang.

‘Happy birthday, Bessie.’

Bess swallowed the last of her tears. It was typical of her brother to cut to the chase. He was never interested in chit-chat, chewing the fat or catching up. It always made her feel that to make contact at all was a chore, perhaps it was, and that fact alone pawed at her heart.

‘Thanks, Philip. I got your card and flowers, thank you. They’re really lovely.’ She glanced over at the mantelpiece, where his and Nanette’s card sat in front of the one from her sister-in-law, Bianca, the word ‘F*CKING’ just visible. She’d have to rearrange them when she got off the phone.