‘Are you going out?’ asks Grace abruptly. There are purplish shadows under her eyes, which would make anyone else look haggard. They make Grace look ethereal.

‘It’s my first date with Aunt Connie’s lawyer tonight,’ says Sophie, feeling both juvenile and ancient. Here is Grace, at least five years younger than her, a mother and a wife, while Sophie is still going out on first dates.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Grace. ‘I won’t stay then. I just wanted to talk to you about something.’

‘Oh, well, come in. I’ve got time for a quick cup of tea. I’m getting ready hours too early of course.’ Why must she always babble in Grace’s presence? ‘Did your headache get better yesterday?’

Grace lifts Jake from his sling. ‘Would you like to hold him? I can make the tea.’

‘Oh, of course.’

So Sophie is in the middle of trying to make the baby laugh by blowing raspberries against his tummy, messing up her carefully blow-dried hair, when Grace makes her announcement.

‘I’m thinking of leaving Callum.’

‘Grace!’ Sophie feels a thud of fear, guilt, and beneath it all a tiny, quickly suppressed twinge of excitement.

‘Don’t say anything to him please. Will you promise not to say anything?’

‘Of course.’ Wonderful. More promises to keep secrets that probably shouldn’t be kept. ‘But you’ve got to talk about this to him. He adores you, Grace.’

‘No he doesn’t. Not really.’

‘I expect it’s just both of you adjusting to the new baby. Everybody says it’s such a difficult time.’

‘We’ve been having problems for ages.’

‘Oh.’

Sophie doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t have the same sort of relationship with Grace as she does with her other girlfriends. With them she’d be firing questions and getting every detail. But Grace is so forbidding.

‘What about the baby?’ she says finally, thinking of how much Callum adores his son. He’d be devastated if Grace took Jake away.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Ggggggg!’ comments Jake cheerfully, trying hard to put his big toe in his mouth.

Sophie can see his whole future in an instant: being shuttled back and forth between two homes, overhearing Mum and Dad snarling at each other about child support, hating Mummy’s new boyfriend (although perhaps rather liking Daddy’s lovely new girlfriend?). Oh stop it, this isn’t a game, this is a marriage!

‘What about counselling?’ she asks Grace. ‘I’ve got two lots of friends seeing the same counsellor at the moment. Apparently he’s very good and he gives you receipts that say “professional development” so you can claim it as a tax deduction. I’ll get you his number. Actually, I can get you his number right now, if you want?’

Grace looks horrified by the offer. ‘No, no, I don’t want to talk about it with anyone. I just thought I’d tell you. Actually, I won’t stay. I’ll just, well, I’ll just…go. Have a good night.’

She lifts the baby from Sophie’s arms and is gone before the kettle begins to boil.

Grace walks back up the hill, Jake’s warm body swinging against her chest, her heart thudding.

Well, she sure does like your dad, Jake. She’ll treat him differently now she knows I’m thinking of leaving. I’ve given her permission to touch his arm, to hold eye-contact. I’ve opened the door just a fraction, just enough to get them underway. You’ll all three be very happy together. You’ll have a lovely mummy and daddy. I’ll give them two more weeks. I can manage two more weeks. Up until the Anniversary. I’ll get the tax returns done, so Callum doesn’t have to worry about it. Paperwork gives him eczema. I hope Sophie is good with paperwork. Have all the washing up-to-date. I’ll leave lots of food in the freezer. Sophie only seems to make cakes–and they’re not very good–but I guess Margie will help cook for them. There’ll be that life-insurance payout, so that will be handy. It will look like an accident.

She takes a deep breath of the cold air. Yes. She feels better than she has in weeks.

Ian the Sweet Solicitor doesn’t put a first-date foot wrong. He is charming and intelligent, not sickeningly smooth but attentive and sweet. He clears his throat when they are given a table next to the kitchen’s constantly swinging door and courteously but firmly asks if they can be moved. Sophie likes both the nervy clearing of the throat and the firmness.

She asks him about the scar under his eye.

‘I wish I’d got it fighting a duel,’ he says. ‘Or at least playing some sort of rugged, masculine sport. But it’s actually a chickenpox scar from when I was eleven.’

‘Chickenpox!’ cries Sophie. ‘It’s not even a nice disease!’

‘Would it help if I nearly died from it?’

‘Nope. It’s too itchy to ever be romantic.’

He has no problem with Sophie choosing the wine. He asks questions about her life but doesn’t demand to know who she votes for, or why she’s still single, or whether she likes o**l s*x. He is interested in her work without being patronising. He doesn’t show off. He is nice to their waitress. He has nice hands. He doesn’t grip his knife and fork or stick his elbows out.

He drives an expensive car but doesn’t appear to be in love with it.

He is divorced, but doesn’t seem bitter and weird about it.

He kisses her goodnight and it’s lovely and he smells divine. His tongue doesn’t slither in and out of her mouth like an eager lizard. His teeth don’t smash against hers.

‘I’ll call,’ he says, and she knows that he will.

Ian the Sweet Solicitor is an absolute catch.

As she drifts off to sleep she thinks of Callum and Grace. Their relationship probably began with a perfect first date like this. And now look.

That night she dreams she’s in bed with Ian. He’s lying on one elbow, smiling down at her, and Sophie is trying to hide her revulsion because he’s covered in horrible chickenpox spots. ‘He’s just a poxy lawyer,’ says Callum, sitting on the end of her bed, holding Jake. Sophie laughs and laughs.

40

Rose serenely tucks her long white hair under her hot-pink floral bathing cap while Sophie jiggles up and down on the cold hard sand, rubbing her goose-bumpy arms and saying, ‘Don’t you think we might be at risk of hypothermia this morning, Rose?’