‘You’re scaring me, Ginger.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because you need to send this sick bastard a message. And he needs to get it.’

‘And what if he doesn’t?’

‘Then you’re not in trouble,’ Ginger said. ‘He is.’

A quiet night at home.

‘The dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck,’ Christian read to Marlon at bedtime, their happy, familiar voices cackling through the child monitor, and I could have wept with love for them. ‘And under the fierce conditions of trail life, it grew and grew.’

Christian came into the living room with a shy smile.

‘Do you know what I heard is great for jet lag?’ he said. ‘Prosecco!’

Our lovemaking was urgent and fierce after our time apart, and when it was done we lay breathless and grateful, tangled in each other’s arms and legs, drifting easily into deep and dreamless sleep, and as my mind emptied at last, I heard Christian’s laughter in the dark.

‘You should go away more often,’ he said.

8

Christian

‘Harder,’ Spike said.

I was holding a sweat-slick medicine ball, one of those big 12-kilo babies that you have to wrap your arms around just to pick it up, trying to control my ragged breathing.

I looked up at my Personal Trainer. Spike was a big man in a proud-muscled sleeveless top with shoulder-length hair so long, blonde and silky it looked like he should be advertising hair conditioner. The only surfer dude in town. Spike wore shorts to the gym even in winter.

‘Be right with you,’ I gasped.

Spike chuckled with pleasure.

We were at the end of our session, and Spike had pushed me to the limit. The lactic acid was making my muscles ache, the salt of my sweat burned my eyes and I was right on the very edge of sickness.

Spike was a good trainer.

We always ended our sessions in the same way. We stood ten metres apart, the gym usually empty at this time in the early afternoon, and we threw the big medicine ball at each other. He widened his eyes at me. Amused, challenging.

‘No rush, mate – but are you going to chuck it or give it a cuddle?’

I threw it at him. A good shot. He did not have to reach or move his feet. All he had to do was catch the thing. And that was tough enough. The wind whooshed out of him as he took the impact against his abdomen.

We laughed. Throwing the medicine ball at each other never felt like training. It felt like play. Spike threw it back, his aim just a bit off so it came at me slightly high and wide. I caught it on my chest, above my heart.

Spike grinned.

And then two women came into the gym, one of the young PTs and her slightly older client, half-watching us as they discussed the client’s tight hamstring, and Spike and I both stopped smiling. We could both feel it.