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After the concert, Zora was low-energy, even sullen, before starting to cry, ostensibly at the inadequacy of Coralie’s snack, a popcorn bar she’d bought at Pret that morning (for herself).

“Did you wish Daddy could’ve come?” Coralie had to say, and Zora nodded, tears rolling down her face.

It was hard for Coralie not to cry that she wished that too.

All the while, she was conscious of an argument going on inside her, between the part of her that loved Zora and would do anything for her and the part that hated being taken for granted by the adults in Zora’s life.

On the bus home, an email arrived from Antoinette. I seem to have missed you , the subject line read. Sinisterly, the body of the email was blank.

When she and Zora arrived at Wilton Way, they found a bumptious young electrician touring the ground floor, the lighting plan in his hand and a frown on his face.

Everything Coralie had chosen was “really not normal” and “sorry, not being funny, but just wrong.” People usually had spotlights in the kitchen, recessed.

Pendants were for living rooms, not above kitchen islands.

Nobody would look for a light switch at a height of ninety centimeters.

(The electrician mimed sweeping the wall for a switch in the dark.) For a “property of this nature,” he’d expect something fancier than the basic white switches she’d chosen, like brass or even gold.

(Gold?!) Toward the end of his whirlwind tour through all her mistakes, her face was red, and she was trembling.

“I want what I’ve said I want,” she almost shouted.

There was a long pause. “Well, okay, but I can’t do the work if you’re going to be here.”

Coralie laughed from shock. “I live here.”

“I mean,” he said slowly, as if to a stupid person, “normally the house is empty. When I’m working? I’m going to be turning the power off, replacing the consumer unit, all that.”

“We’ll be out of the house all week. Also working.” (She’d be staying late in the office every single day and making sure Antoinette knew about it.) “This has all been arranged with Oneal!”

“Your choice,” he said grimly. “Your choice!”

···

Over the course of the weekend, she realized once and for all how pivotal the shape of a dwelling was for making the people inside it feel okay.

With her pointless mocked-up, temporary first-floor half-kitchen, there could be no long, luxurious stirring of onions in a pan, where she could complete a discrete task (gaining a sense of achievement), simultaneously zoning out as Zora drew or played on the iPad (feeling pleasantly companionable) while also producing “the family meal” (the fact of it benefitting others placing her beyond reproach).

There was nowhere to simply be . When Zora came into their room, she felt self-conscious and smothered.

When she went into Zora’s room, she felt dominant and overweening, as though her physical presence was promising a level of personalized attention and face-to-face engagement on which she couldn’t follow through.

Adam seemed to have adopted the top-floor spare room as his own, reams of research and transcripts spread out across the bed.

“Less than a month till the election, less than two months till deadline,” he muttered again and again.

When she brought him a cup of tea, he said, “Thanks.” When she paused, waiting for a more effusive response, he said, “Just leave it there.”

“Okay, Tolstoy,” she said in a nasty voice.

Just got to get through it!

On Saturday evening, late enough for Coralie to be in her pajamas, Adam received a call from The Spectator .

Someone from the New Statesman had dropped out of a podcast live-record.

Could Adam please come on as the Labour-leaning guy?

There’d be great promo in it for the Young Country pod and his books—and a case of Pol Roger?

It would take up the entire Sunday morning she’d hoped to spend sourcing taps.

“Of course you must,” she said dully as he set his alarm for seven.

By lunch, he still wasn’t back. They were due to drop Zora off at four. She couldn’t be in the house a moment longer. “Let’s go for a walk!” She could hear her own desperation. “We’ll go to Victoria Park Village! We’ll have some fish and chips! Daddy’s on his bike; he’ll meet us there!”

“I don’t want to walk.” Zora was mutinous. “Walks are for adults and creatures.”

“What, then?”

“Stay inside. I know, I’ll FaceTime Mummy and Tom!”

Coralie was too beleaguered to interface with those two. “You’re going to see them this afternoon.”

“Please.”

“Okay.” She couldn’t come between a child and her mother. “I’ll text.”

By the time Tom replied, Adam had returned, packed up Zora’s bags, and headed out toward the station, promising hot chocolate on the way.

Change of plan! Tom’s message to Coralie said. Marina’s contractions have started and we’re on our way to hospital! Can you keep Zora? Geraldine’s flight was canceled and we don’t have backups. Perhaps you can extend the drama club? With thanks, Tom.

Change of plan! With thanks, Tom!

She rang Adam in the hope he hadn’t got on the train. “Where are you?”

“Outside the Iceland at Hackney Central.”

“Good. Well, change of plan. The baby’s coming. Tom says, can we keep Zora for a while?”

“Zora!” she heard Adam call. “Stop!”

“Love to get a bit of notice.”

“I know,” Adam said. “And I’m off to Manchester tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I’m off to Manchester tomorrow? Manchester? For the Labour manifesto launch?”

“And when do you think you’ll be back?”

“I don’t know, Wednesday? I didn’t think it mattered. I was going to see what Ed was doing.”

Coralie hung up.

···

That night, as Zora cuddled Sparebitty, too excited to sleep till she knew whether she was getting a brother or a sister, Coralie and Adam whispered one of the worst fights in the two years they’d spent together.

“You chose to go to the concert—nobody made you!” Adam said.

“You knew I had a book to finish. What am I supposed to do, not write the book?” He was passive, sullen.

He refused to meet her eye. “I have a contract to write the book. Should I give the money back?” She became hysterical; she sobbed that he was ruining her life.

“It’s good to know you feel this way before we try to have a kid,” he said.

“If we’re ruining each other’s lives, we should stop.

” What do you mean? she almost screamed.

Tell me what you mean! “Coralie,” he said blankly.

“You can decide what I mean.” He was a stranger.

At 3 a.m. she stopped crying. At 4 a.m. they had sex.

At five, Adam left to catch the train to Manchester.

At six, she got a text from Tom with a picture of Zora’s new brother, Rupert, to be known as Rup.

At seven, she promised a very excited Zora to take her to the hospital to see him.

Immediately after she emailed in sick, a full complement of builders arrived, reminding her she’d be without power for much of the day.

By nine, Antoinette had sent back a scary one-word reply: Noted.

But just as she and Zora were getting ready to leave, there came a knock on the door.

It was Sally. Behind her, in the car, Anne sat looking annoyed.

Adam had issued a predawn SOS, and they’d come to take Zora off her hands.

Coralie surprised all of them, and herself, by bursting into sobs of despair.

···

At a week old, Rup was already too big for his white John Lewis newborn sleepsuit. He lay stretched across Marina’s lap like a witchetty grub. “He’s lovely and relaxed,” Coralie said.

Tom gave her an anguished look, and Marina actually snorted.

In the corner, Geraldine Amin glanced up from her sudoku. “He’s not like this in the night.”

Adam looked around for Zora. “Are you ready, poppet?” She was: Her backpack was on.

“Have a lovely weekend,” Coralie said.

“Don’t worry,” Marina replied, “we won’t.”

“Oh?”

“Tom’s campaigning in Eastbourne. Totally exhausting politics. An absolute waste of my time.”

“Hormones. Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Tom squeezed her hand. “I’m probably going to lose.”

“Oh, don’t you worry.” Marina was grim. “You will.”

On the train, Zora said she’d always imagined feeding the baby with a bottle, but Granny Geraldine wouldn’t allow it.

She wanted to read to him, but if he ever “got awake,” he just wanted to eat or cry.

He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t play, and did they know he didn’t have teeth?

“Granny Geraldine says I love Rupey, really.”

“And do you?” Adam asked.

Zora put on Marina’s face and mangled one of her phrases. “Let me get back on you to that.”

···

Adam was on the road most of the time. On the rare occasions he was at home, they huddled close, almost wordless, recovering from the fight.

They had made up, they were in love , but Coralie had been so harrowed she seemed to have lost part of her brain.

It was the part she normally liked best, the companionable bit, jollying the rest of her along with observations, witticisms, analysis, and—sure!

—a bit of overthinking. To lose it was depressing but helpful in a way.

She became a person who did one thing at a time.

At work, she was at work. Antoinette was pleased with her.

At home, she was at home. The bespoke glazing was installed, the renovation not even late.

She felt confident to schedule the redelivery of the books, kitchen things, and ground-floor stuff that had languished for months in storage.

Their lives would be back to normal after the election, almost to the day.

And thank God, because toward the end of April, the campaign had gone what Adam would call a bit “bonkers.” David Cameron caused an outcry by forgetting he supported Aston Villa.

This has to cost Cameron the election, surely?

How can anyone “forget” which football team they support?

Unforgivable , Piers Morgan had tweeted.

Meanwhile, Ed Miliband had some unlikely support from teenage girls, who called him “Milibae” and themselves “Milifans.” With less than two weeks to go, the word on the street was that the nation was heading for a hung Parliament and another coalition government—but whether Labour or the Conservatives would be the larger party, nobody really knew.

Ultimately, however, the fate of the UK’s democracy turned out not to be her problem. In the first week of May, just as life was as close as possible to normality, Coralie’s brother summoned her home.

Sorry, Cor , Daniel’s email said. Mum’s in the Last Chance Saloon.