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The words hung there. Chloe stepped in, hesitant.

Rita switched instantly. Bright. Easy. ‘Hey, Chloe, how were they?’

Chloe sighed. ‘They stirred once, but I gave them both a cuddle and just a drop of milk. They went straight back down. Like angels.’

‘You.’ Rita pushed a finger onto the young girl’s shoulder. ‘Are the angel.’

Rita swayed slightly. Jago clocked it.

‘I’d better get back to Alfie.’ Chloe reached for her handbag. ‘Could one of you give me a lift, do you think?’

‘Shit! Shit, sorry.’ Jago bit his lip. ‘We both had some of Pete the Pilchard’s dastardly punch. So, we shouldn’t really.’

‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ Rita cut in quickly.

Jago reached for this car keys. ‘Actually, it’s not far. I can drive, it’s fine.’

‘No way,’ Rita’s voice snapped sharply. ‘Look what happened to Archie. I’m not having the same happen to you.’

Silence dropped.

Chloe moved towards the door. ‘It’s fine. I’ll sort myself out.’

‘Have the day off tomorrow, Chloe. Full pay.’ Rita grinned. ‘You deserve it.’

‘Thanks. I will,’ Chloe replied curtly.

The door closed behind her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Jago brushed his wife’s lips. ‘You are so going to regret that kind gesture.’

Rita tutted. ‘I’m going to check on my babies.’

Jago shook his head. ‘Rita…’

But she was already on her way.

Upstairs, the twins were asleep, small and perfect. Rita stood over them for a moment, pushing out her bottom lip at the pure cuteness of them. Nathan had wriggled himself sideways, one arm flung above his head, blanket kicked down to his waist. Noa, beside him, was the opposite, tucked in tight, chin dipped, both hands folded up near her face. Every now and then her mouth made the smallest movement, as she settled herself deeper without waking.

Rita watched them for a second longer, the quiet of the room wrapping around them. Then she slipped into the bathroom and flicked on the light.

She stared at herself. Hair whipped up by the harbour breeze. Mascara smudged. Lipstick long worn off. The catastrophic words, I might as well have a fling still rang in her ears.

‘Right,’ she said defiantly. The jeans came off first. Dropped. Then the top.

Piece by piece, she stripped away the version of herself from downstairs.

From the bedroom drawer: a short shift dress she hadn’t worn in years.

She stepped into it, pulling it up clumsily, then smoothing it into place.

Then the underwear from the other night, including the hold-ups, went on in a frantic tangle up each leg. She adjusted her dress and dug through her wardrobe for a pair of heels.

She smeared on a bright red lipstick. ‘Much better,’ she said aloud, smiling and doing a little jig at her reflection.

Downstairs, Jago was in the kitchen, pouring two pints of water.

Rita paused in the doorway. ‘Ta-da.’