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‘Chloe.’ Her voice wavered. ‘You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I understand.’

That only made Chloe’s expression wobble further. Which, Rita realised suddenly, was probably because nobody had ever said that to her before.

‘I know what my Thom is like.’

‘Your precious bloody son,’ Chloe spat.

Rita flinched. ‘Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face,’ she added. ‘That’s all I’m saying. Don’t throw everything away in anger.’

Chloe’s gaze drifted past Rita then, to the sofa where all three children sat watching Ms. Rachel, small and absorbed in the soft glow of the screen.

‘So why even bring it up!’ She hesitated for a second, then crossed over and lifted her son gently into her arms.

Alfie made a small protesting sound, more confused than upset, curling instinctively into her shoulder as the music continued without his gaze.

For a moment Chloe didn’t speak, then with her voice breaking, said, ‘Tell the twins… I’m sorry.’

And before Rita could answer, she turned and walked out of the door.

Rita stood for a moment in the company of Ms Rachel, who was dancing enthusiastically across the television screen, the twins lapping up every second. The door clicked shut behind Chloe.

Realising that nothing would get resolved if she were to follow now, and not being able to leave the children anyway, Rita sank onto the sofa between her babies and reached for her laptop. She clicked back through the footage. And there it was.

Her darling little Nathan, unsteady on his feet, wobbling forward with that fierce, determined concentration only toddlers have when they decide something is going to happen. Then the step. Then another. Then Chloe, just as delighted as he was, sweeping him up and telling him what a clever boy he was.

Rita didn’t move for a while, just sat there between the twins, laptop glowing in front of her, watching it again and again like she was trying to hold on to the moment. The moment before all the heartache she had caused for no other reason than to prove she knew what was going on.

Chloe, without doubt, had a heart of gold. And whatever had happened between her and Thom, it was clearly breaking her apart.

Rita wiped her face quickly, but the tears kept coming anyway. Because if someone had asked her what was really wrong in that moment, it wasn’t Chloe at all, it was Thom, and the fear that something she had done as a mother had somehow helped shape who he’d become.

FORTY-SEVEN

The moon was completely full. The snow had left Yurt Avenue hushed beneath a pale winter covering. A light layer clung to the rooftops of the yurts and gathered along the ground like a white rug, while Teo had made sure that the hay bales had been carefully layered with thick woollen blankets to keep out the last bite of the cold.

Zenya, short of howling with delight at the lunar gorgeousness, sat perched on one of them, legs tucked beneath her like some kind of content woodland creature.

The retreat guests gathered in a loose, shifting semi-circle around the fire pit, the fairy lights adorning the yurts twinkling softly behind them. Above, the sky was sharp and clear, stars scattered like salt across dark velvet. The chilly wind had finally dropped, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the occasional murmur of voices settling into place.

Rita stood to one side for a moment, taking it in. The final moonlight mantra. It always surprised her how quickly people could unify, strangers at the start of the week, now bundled together in coats and shared jokes and a kind of reluctant familiarity that only formed when people get real with themselves. Her week hadn’t been short of drama itself, so to just be up here with the moon and stars and no phone was actually wonderfully refreshing.

Jago was on babysitting duty. She had been rushing to leave as he had arrived late, so she had not had time to confess that she had opened her mouth to Chloe or worse still lied to the girl.

Teo was already moving between them with extra blankets, stamping his feet for warmth.

‘Right, soul survivors,’ Zenya called out, rubbing her hands together. ‘Your last night in our snowy paradise on high. Try not to emotionally combust before we begin, yeah?’

A few tired laughs floated up.

Oksana smiled faintly. There was a softness in her face that hadn’t been there at the beginning of the week.

Evan stayed standing, hands outstretched to the fire as he marched on the spot.

Delia, predictably, had made herself comfortable on the most central hay bale as if it were a stage. Covering her head with a huge blue blanket and likening herself to Mary in the nativity, she announced, ‘If I do die of frostbite tonight, I expect something here to be named after me, at least.’

‘Noted.’ Rita grinned. ‘We’ll carve you into a commemorative ice sculpture.’

Gabriel laughed, shaking his head as he helped Oksana settle her blanket more securely around her shoulders. ‘Did you hear that?’