They’re cross with her. ‘Come on. Of course you were. You can tell us. We’re your friends! What were you thinking about?’

She was actually thinking about how that pale blue jumper that everyone said really suited her would be the perfect thing to wear when she went around to Callum and Grace’s place the next night. Not that it matters what she wears, of course, but still, that blue jumper will be just right.

She says, ‘I was wondering about who was going to get voted off on the next episode of Survivor.’

They all groan. ‘She’s not even blushing,’ says someone disappointedly.

The two-dollar coin is carefully fished out from the bottom of the goat curry. It’s tails. Rick’s supporters give each other high fives, a glass of wine is knocked over and the waiter arrives to ask hopefully if maybe they’d like him to bring the bill soon?

Sophie is over for dinner and Grace has let Callum light the fire for the first time since moving into her mother’s place; the living room is all cosy, crackling shadows. Grace’s mother only ever lit the fire when they had guests, and the next morning she would be up early, marching around with a can of hissing air-freshener held at arm’s length, throwing open windows and pulling off cushion covers to be washed. But it’s only a house, and Laura is so far away, on a Greek island complaining about fatty moussaka and pretending to be a different sort of mother.

(Why does no one say what they must all be thinking? Why does no one ask the question: What sort of mother decides to take a twelve-month around-the-world holiday a few weeks before her only daughter gives birth to her only grandson? And what sort of daughter has a mother like that?)

Sophie is holding Jake and sitting very comfortably on Grace’s mother’s sofa, looking pretty and cheerful in a blue top. She is playing a game with the baby where she lifts him up under his armpits so his splayed legs dangle and then she buries her nose in his stomach, strands of her hair brushing against his nose. Each times she does this she makes a strange sound like: ‘goobidy goobidy DOO!’ Jake finds this side-splittingly funny. He convulses with anticipatory laughter as soon as she drops her head. Callum is on his knees next to them, poking away unnecessarily at the fire and laughing whenever Jake laughs.

Grace walks into the room with a heavy carafe of mulled wine and feels as though her whole body has come out in an intensely itchy rash. There is a dry clicking sound at the back of her throat. She wants to roll around on the carpet like a rabid dog. She wants to throw the carafe against the wall and see the hard glass shatter into thick fragments. She wants to scream something incoherent and stupid at them.

She says, ‘Would you like to give him his bath, Sophie?’

Sophie puts the baby back in her lap and looks up at Grace in the flickering firelight. ‘Oh, no, I’m not trained! I’d be frightened I’d drown him.’

Well, you’d better learn, stupid f**king bitch, with your f**king sweet dimples, or what are you going to do when I’m not around? It’s like there’s a mad old drunk lolling around in her head who suddenly lurches up to scream obscenities. What happens if she ever breaks free and takes control of Grace’s tongue?

She smiles. ‘Callum will show you what to do. He’s better at bathing him than me.’

Perfect. The two of you together in a steamy bathroom with adorable splashing child away from me, away from me, away from me.

But then Callum stands up, all courteous crinkly eyed smiles, all handsome, new-age, home-improvement-show Daddy, and says, ‘Why don’t you two relax and have a drink while I give him his bath?’

BECAUSE I don’t want to sit and make conversation with Little Miss Sweet and Clean and Cheery, can’t you see that, can’t you see that, I NEED, I NEED, I NEED…

She says, ‘Sophie would probably like to see Jake have his bath,’ and this time her voice has an unmistakeable, socially inappropriate hard edge that causes Callum’s lips to draw together in that horrible hurt-little-boy way. Sophie stands up, pulling at the sleeves of her jumper so they cover her hands, like a teenage schoolgirl, and says, ‘I’ll come and hand you towels or something, Callum.’

Grace watches them go and thinks, I can’t take this much longer.

Sophie sits on the edge of the bathtub holding the baby while Callum tests the bathwater with his elbow. ‘So, how’s it going with your two suitors?’ he says. ‘Anyone in the lead?’

‘They’re neck and neck.’

It’s unsettling being in this small, brightly lit room with Callum. She can see a tiny shaving nick on his neck. He’s a very large man. She feels an irresistible urge to place the flat of her hand against his chest.

‘Have you got certain performance criteria? You can start undressing him, by the way.’

Sophie carefully lays the baby on his back on the change table and begins unbuttoning his suit. The fragrance of baby-bath liquid fills the room.

‘Oh yes, I’ve got them both jumping through hoops,’ she says. ‘I hold up scoreboards at the end of each date.’

‘I remember there was a girl in my school called Maria who kept an exercise book rating all the boys she kissed,’ says Callum. ‘Here–let Dad.’ Jake is starting to squirm crossly as Sophie pulls ineffectually at his singlet. Callum pulls the singlet up and over Jake’s head in one swift movement.

‘Were you in Maria’s scorebook?’

‘Oh, every guy in year ten was in Maria’s scorebook. We were all allowed one attempt. I thought I’d done pretty well but apparently not. I got four out of ten.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Yep. According to the comments, I went in too soon with the tongue. Maria specified a five-second lead-up. Also, I forgot to take my chewie out of my mouth. Apparently girls don’t like that.’

Sophie guffaws. ‘Oh, well, I’m sure you’ve improved dramatically.’ She looks up at him. He is holding Jake’s naked, mottled little body close to his chest. He has large hands; one hand nearly covers Jake’s back. The bathroom is filled with scent and steam and the surprisingly loud sound of running water.

‘Let’s hope so.’ Their eyes hold for just a fraction longer than is appropriate. Sophie drops her eyes and thinks, married, married, married.

Don’t go there, thinks Callum, stroking his son’s soft, vulnerable head. Don’t go there, you fool!