The air was chilly, a salty breeze carrying in from the sea. She could see the water, a navy blue stripe against the grey sky. There was one faint shape far out on the ocean and she imagined a small ship, bobbing in the waves, alone, isolated, just the boat and the expanse of water around it. Thinking about all that space and solitude made her feel calmer and her breathing slowed a little. She walked over to a bench, pulling her cardigan tight around her for warmth and the feeling of security, of being held, contained. The wood of the bench was cold and damp beneath her legs after a rain shower earlier. A shadow stepped into the light of the kitchen doorway and her heart sank at the thought that someone wanted something from her, a need that required satiating on demand, but it was just Clive, watching from the back door, reluctant to come outside into the frigid garden but desperate to make sure she was safe.

Helen smiled and sipped at her cooling tea. She looked up at the windows above her. Bedroom windows on either side of the huge stained glass masterpiece running down the centre of the back wall like a painted mouth. She could see Mills walking past her window, swigging from the neck of a bottle. Helen knew she kept vodka in her room, could often smell the cigarette smoke in her hair too, thinly disguised by a spritz of body spray. Helen should probably add it to the list of things to talk to her about, but the idea left her feeling enervated. Hugh wouldn’t get involved – they had an unspoken rule that he disciplined his kids and she did hers – but after a childhood like Helen’s had been, she knew all of the best hiding places for contraband and didn’t think it was a big enough problem to address just yet. Some clandestine booze and cigarettes were the least of her sins back then.

Helen’s eyes moved over to Matt’s window. Just shapes and shadows moving beyond curtains that had been closed again.

She checked her watch, drained her mug and got to her feet with a sigh. It was 4:30 p.m. She needed to get some writing time in before making a start on dinner. Hugh liked his dinner on time at 7:30 p.m. every evening and she had been on the receiving end of his terse looks before, the way the sides of his face pinched in when he was made to wait. He was a stickler for good manners and punctuality.

But happy life, happy husband.