But Callum didn’t have to fake it. He got his head around Jake immediately. His son. He said it over and over in his head. My son. I have a son. That’s my son. I’d like to introduce my son.

Now should be the happiest time of their lives, so why isn’t it? It isn’t just that sex has stopped. He was ready for that. His brother had warned him of that too. ‘Forget about sex. It’s a sweet, distant memory.’

But he thought even if they stopped having sex they’d still be able to laugh about it, or even talk about it all. He thought they’d still be them. Before the baby was born the doctor had told them they could have sex about six weeks after the baby was born. ‘Six weeks!’ Grace had said on the way home from the doctor. ‘I’ll go mad without sex for six weeks!’

It’s now been eight weeks. Jake is two months old. Not only has Grace not mentioned anything about sex but she has stopped touching Callum.

Grace isn’t a touchy-feely type. She’s not the sort of woman to snuggle and cuddle and lavish him with kisses. But she does (did?) touch him. She gets very cold hands and feet. When they’re watching television she has a habit of warming her hands by putting them under his clothes, snaking her hands up his sleeves. She doesn’t do this any more. When he was shaving at the bathroom mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist, she used to stop and kiss his back on the three freckles like a triangle that he’d never even known existed till she told him. She doesn’t do this any more either. He’s started taking note. It’s not that she flinches when he kisses her hello or goodnight. She doesn’t move away when he hugs her in bed. But she completely avoids touching him at all.

Is that normal? He wants to ask someone but he can’t bear the jokes. He doesn’t want his brother to give him that complacent big-brotherly look: ‘I told you, mate. Forget sex!’

Sometimes in the middle of the night he wakes up with his heart pounding, a terrifying thought in his head: Grace doesn’t love me any more. He remembers how everything changed in an instant with Pauline, as they were eating those sandwiches. That time of his life was so terrible, and he realises now that he didn’t even love Pauline! Not the way he loves Grace. In the morning he laughs at himself. Everything is fine. Everything is perfectly normal. He is thirty-five years old with a beautiful wife, a brand-new baby, a career and a mortgage on a house which is being built when it’s not raining.

Except that sometimes when they’re eating dinner and he’s watching Grace move her fork to her mouth and he’s talking about his day at work, he has a sick, frightened feeling in his stomach as though he’s teetering on the edge of a terrible chasm where one wrong move will send him flying off the edge.

‘Good morning,’ says Grace, next to him.

‘Good morning. Did you get back to sleep OK?’ Callum turns over but already Grace is out of bed, walking towards the bathroom, pulling at the strap of her nightie which has slid down over one shoulder.

She seems to wake up instantly these days. No more Girl in a Coma.

I miss you, Grace, thinks Callum. I really miss you, honey.

31

Aunt Connie’s solicitor is about forty, well dressed, tall, with a crooked grin, gentle brown eyes and a tiny v-shaped scar on his left cheekbone. His name is Ian Curtis. On his desk there is a photo of him knee-deep in snow, with a small, cute nephew sitting on his shoulders. After Ian finishes explaining the rather peculiar terms of Aunt Connie’s will, he takes Sophie to a coffee shop and makes her laugh unexpectedly three times. He says, ‘Mrs Thrum told me I’d like you. She was never wrong, that woman.’ He asks Sophie if she’d like to go out to dinner one night after she’s settled into Connie’s house. She says yes. She does not blush. She also does not even come close to looking at her watch.

Sophie’s girlfriends shriek down the phone lines. Everyone had a feeling she was going to meet the right guy very soon. There is no doubt that this is the ‘nice young man’ in Aunt Connie’s letter. It’s just so obvious. It’s just so perfect. Finally!

32

The man employed full-time to look after gardening and maintenance on Scribbly Gum Island is called Rick. He is muscular, tanned and shirtless. He has a tattoo of a small green turtle on his right shoulder. He meets Sophie in Connie’s back garden one afternoon and makes her feel quite breathless as he gives her very firm instructions about taking care of the roses, the freesias and the busy lizzies. He says, ‘Mrs Thrum told me she was leaving her house to a very pretty girl. She was never wrong, that lady.’ He asks Sophie if she’d like to go for a picnic at this beautiful spot down the river, once she’s settled into the house. She says yes. She does not look at her watch and she does not blush.

Sophie’s girlfriends become quite deranged. There is frenzied debate. It’s brains versus brawn! But solicitors can be brawny! Gardeners can be brainy! Aunt Connie was clearly referring to the Sweet Solicitor. Aunt Connie was clearly referring to the Gorgeous Gardener. Aunt Connie’s opinion is no longer relevant. She must not sleep with either of them. She must definitely sleep with both of them. She must have a passionate fling with the gardener and then marry the solicitor. She must weigh up her pros and cons. She must go with her heart. She must go with her head. She must take her time. She must hurry up or she’ll lose them both.

Sophie’s girlfriends are starting to annoy her, just a bit.

33

‘Do you think Grace is coping OK with the baby?’

‘Oh yes, darling! She’s so organised! She’s amazing! And she never takes offence–even when I’m giving her all this advice she probably doesn’t want. She’s always been so lovely and polite that way, even when she was a little girl. Not like Veronika. I shouldn’t say this but there were times I could cheerfully have swapped daughters with Laura!’

‘Yeah. I just sometimes–’

‘That’s just between us, of course. I wouldn’t want Veronika to know I thought about swapping her for Grace. I mean, I didn’t really want to swap!’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, one thing, Grace has certainly got her figure back, hasn’t she! Lucky girl.’

‘She just sometimes doesn’t seem quite right to me. I even wondered if she could have postnatal depression.’

‘Oh, no, darling, I’m sure she hasn’t! Look at those beautiful thank you cards she sent out to us all. Now, I can assure you a woman with postnatal depression would not be able to manage that.’