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Before Florence turned one, Coralie started to joke.

“This time last year, I got my first contraction.” Much later: “Ah yes, this time last year was when the hospital turned me away!” But after a while, the enormity of what she’d gone through hit her, and she cried about the birth properly for the first time.

The Sunday after Florence’s birthday, they hosted a small party for her at home: Anne and Sally were there, up from Lewes.

So was Stefan from work, “on a break” from Marcus and pretending to be fine.

And Daniel, now twenty-nine, had just moved to London on a Youth Mobility visa.

Zora was there, of course, with Layla; Tory Tom came early with Rup.

Nearly two, Rup seemed a giant, running around in a collared shirt, a thick nappy under his bulky jeans.

In the space of ten seconds, he climbed to the top of the sofa, rolled onto the seat, then onto the floor with a thump.

“I never knew this, Adam—did you?” Tom dragged his sobbing son onto his lap. “But boys who are tall for their age have rather a hard time. Everyone expects Rup to behave like a three- or four-year-old.”

“No,” Anne said. “Adam didn’t have that problem.”

Tom gave Adam a sympathetic glance. Then—“Tell me, Daniel,” he said. “How are you finding London? Where do you live?”

“Tottenham,” Dan said. “In a warehouse with thirteen housemates.”

“Ooh, edgy.”

“Where do you live, Tom? I don’t know London well enough to make a joke.”

“Clapham?” Stefan guessed. “Putney?”

“Camden, actually. Surprise! It’s my wife; she’s liberal intelligentsia.”

Zora made a comically puzzled face she had learned from a tween comedy on Netflix.

“I don’t think that’s a rude thing to say,” Coralie assured her.

“When people call me a liberal, they do mean to be rude,” Adam said. “Trust me.”

“I saw a clip of you on that show,” Daniel said. “What’s your problem with Jeremy Corbyn? Too nice to the poor? Not enough bomb-dropping on Iraqis? Doesn’t look good in a suit?”

“Daniel, please!” Adam held up his hands in defense. “It’s hard enough having a Tory in my home.”

“What do you do here in London, Daniel?” Stefan asked politely. “Coralie says you’re a chef?”

Seeing suddenly with Stefan’s eyes, Coralie realized anew how handsome her brother was.

His creamy skin and delicate features made sense in London in a way they hadn’t back in Darwin.

His hair was long, down to his shoulders.

It was elegant. She saw Stefan as Daniel might see him, too, tanned from a trip to Mexico, his physique newly honed from his regular CrossFit WODs (that meant “workouts of the day”—he posted them on his Instagram).

It had been quite a long time since she had attracted anyone or been attracted to anyone new.

She’d almost forgotten it was part of life.

“Stef, mate, I’m a cook. I work in a place near Mare Street? Called Junkyard? Yeah, it used to be a junkyard. The mains are thirty pounds each. But we have a weekday lunch that’s a bit cheaper.”

“I’m trapped in Clerkenwell during the week,” Stefan said.

“And he doesn’t eat,” Coralie said.

“Protein shakes are nutrition.”

“Maybe! They’re not food.”

“I thought it was all about Moro for you two,” Sally said. “Wining and dining, Stefan.”

“We took a hit after Brexit,” Stefan said. “The agency, I mean. Our big campaign for Eurostar—remember how much work we did?”

Daniel elbowed Tom with a smile. “Your fault, mate.”

Now Tom raised his hands. “I voted Remain! Unlike your friend Corbyn.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Coralie said. “This is a birthday, not a panel show.”

“I don’t understand why Theresa May hasn’t called an election,” Adam said. “Twenty points ahead in the polls. Or is it thirty? You could put Labour out of business for a decade just with a snap GE.”

“No need to sound so happy about it,” Dan said.

Tom grimaced. “I’m in the most marginal of marginals. And Marina’s only just forgiven me for the last one.”

“Anyway, Tom,” Coralie said, “aren’t you liberal intelligentsia?”

Stefan made a little moue. “Not in that quilted gilet.”

There was a single long cry from upstairs. Sally clapped her hands. “She’s awake!”

Anne darted to the door. “I’ll get her.”

One thing Coralie loved to do was cuddle Florence after a nap, her golden hair all tousled.

She gave Adam a wounded look. He nodded toward the door: She should go up, too, if she wanted.

Coralie could feel Sally watching; she’d almost certainly seen the exchange.

Partly from embarrassment, she made a dash for it.

But she was walking quietly, and when she reached the landing, she saw something that surprised her.

Hard Anne, all angles, was holding Florence to her chest. Florence’s head was leaning on Anne’s shoulder, eyelashes fanned out above her pink cheeks, utterly relaxed.

Anne swayed, humming. Coralie tiptoed back down the stairs.

As she reached the hall, the doorbell rang. “It must be Alice and Beauty,” she called into the sitting room.

“Flo’s little best friend from nursery,” Adam announced.

Sally was enchanted. “Is her name really Beauty?”

Coralie opened the door. “Hi!”

“Hi!” Alice jumped up on the front step and swept Coralie into an elegant cloud of blonde hair and fragrance.

“You smell nice. Where’s Beauty?”

“Ugh! She only napped for five minutes. Nicky has her in the buggy. But it won’t work.”

“It never works. Well, come in, I have quite an assortment of oddballs for you.”

Anne was standing on the stairs with Florence, looking amused.

“Hi, Florrie!” Alice cried. “Happy birthday, gorgeous girl!”

“That’s Anne, Adam’s mum.” Coralie swept Alice into the sitting room. “This is Alice; Alice, this is Tory Tom—”

“ Conservative Tom.” He shook her hand. “Florence’s half sister’s brother’s dad.”

“Stefan from work; my brother, Daniel; Florence’s other granny, Sally, who volunteers at Charleston.”

“Ooh,” Alice said. “Lovely. Bloomsbury, very cool.”

“Zora you’ve already met.”

Alice nodded. “What are you reading, Zora?” Zora held up her graphic novel, a Sherlock Holmes rewritten for kids. “Someone once told me I was so thick ,” Alice said, “I thought Sherlock Holmes was a block of flats.”

“No, it’s Holmes, with an L ,” Zora said.

“Well, I know that now !”

“That’s a lovely dress,” Stefan said. “Is it RIXO?”

“Sorry, it’s Portobello,” Alice said. “People hate it when I say that! Vintage!”

“It’s lovely,” Sally said approvingly. “So how do you two know each other, or is it really the babies who are friends?”

“Oh, no!” Alice grasped Coralie’s arm. “We’re friends!”

They were, against all odds, despite Alice being a literal ten who hadn’t read a book since school and Coralie being a charmless Australian who commuted on the bus, had a dull winter complexion, and still wore Uniqlo elastic-waist trousers.

They’d met when they’d both picked up their daughters late on the same day.

In the shed, they struggled with their buggies, both with burning faces, until Alice said, “I hate being told off, don’t you?

” They walked home together through the park.

Alice paid for three days a week of nursery by renting her flat out as a photo shoot set.

It was on a corner above a former pub in Dalston and got the light from “three aspects.” Alice revamped it seemingly every month, repainting, tiling, putting up shelves.

She also made lampshades, wall hangings, and tapestries, which she got bored with after a short time and sold through her Instagram.

Ever since that first meeting, they messaged each other to walk to nursery together.

Sometimes, when Nicky was away, and Coralie was in the bath, she and Alice texted for an hour straight. So, yes—they were friends.

Anne put Florence down so she could pull herself up and try to walk. Immediately all the adults crouched to encourage her while Adam made the tea. The doorbell rang. Tory Tom went to open it. “Florence,” he called. “It’s your little pal.”

After a dramatic pause, a small girl toddled in. Seeing the large group, she stopped in her tracks before running back to clutch the baggy corduroy trousers of her tall and diffident father. “Look, Beauty, there’s Mama.” Nicky pointed to Alice on the sofa. Beauty ran over and climbed into her lap.

“Hi, Nicky,” Coralie said. She noticed Stefan stare toward the kitchen at Adam, who raised his eyebrows. “Wait.” She jogged over to him. “Let’s have it all in the kitchen—we can do the cake now and have it with the tea.”

“Cor,” Adam said urgently. “You didn’t tell me Nicky was Nicky Adebayo.”

“I didn’t really know he was Nicky anyone?”

“I thought you were the Google fiend?”

“Not about men! Anyway, I knew who he was from Alice. I just didn’t think you would know him. What were you saying to Tom before? There won’t be an election, will there?”

“No. No, no. Nicky, hi!” Adam stretched out his hand. “Adam!”

“Nicky,” Nicky said.

“That’s lucky,” Anne said. Everyone turned to her. “That Beauty is beautiful. You know—that name’s a real gamble.”

Nicky laughed. “We chose it after she was born, when it was safe.”

“Well, well done.”

“Tea?” Adam said. “Coffee? Cake time? Flossie, is it cake time?”