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“Still, you must miss it,” Sally said. “Australia. And will you two be FaceTiming your father tonight? It must be Christmas there already. Or are we ahead? I can’t remember. Coralie, what does Florence call your dad?”

Coralie didn’t know what to say.

“Mr. Bower,” Zora joked.

“When I was a teenager,” Daniel said, “he made me call him sir.”

“Maybe we’ll FaceTime him?” Coralie looked at Daniel, who made a generous “go right ahead” gesture, implying that he, of course, would not.

“It’s somebody you know’s bedtime,” Adam said.

Florence was lying in his lap, her eyes half shut. She realized everyone was looking at her. “I want a bribe .”

“She means a mince pie,” Coralie murmured.

“And I want a Sally bath ,” Flo said.

Sally got up immediately. “I mean—if it’s okay with you…”

Adam made the same gesture Daniel had made moments earlier. When Sally led Flo out by the hand, Zora became the child and laid her head on Adam’s shoulder.

“It’s nice to have you here,” Coralie said.

“Very nice,” Anne said.

How had Marina responded to Zora’s choice?

Maybe the surname thing had taken out some of the sting.

Coralie was glad not to be in that Range Rover, speeding Zora-less toward an awkward Sevenoaks Christmas.

Of course, Marina had known Tom was a Conservative when they’d met; they’d joked about it at the wedding.

But being a Tory back then was somehow different from being one now—or was it?

It had always been pretty grim. It was nice to have Zora, but breaking long-held arrangements, with none in place for the future, was frightening.

Did they want to be in a child custody dispute with two barristers? It seemed foolhardy.

As if he were reading Coralie’s thoughts, Adam cupped Zora’s chin. “The name stuff I don’t mind. But I would die if you didn’t want to see me anymore,” he said. “Zora? You always have to see me. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Zora said.

···

Anne sat back in her chair like a patriarch as Daniel and Adam cleared the dinner.

Coralie fed Maxi at the table, self-conscious in front of Anne, not about her exposed breast (“I’ve seen it all before,” Anne grimly claimed) but about her habitual murmured endearments, and the baby’s smiles and laughs.

“Maybe just let him get on with it,” Anne had once admonished.

She often said that kind of thing, along with “You’re making a rod for your own back. ”

“I might go up and read to Wrennie,” Zora said. “Cor, that’s your phone.”

In the middle of the table, Coralie’s screen was flashing with a video call. “Oh, it’s Roger,” Coralie said.

Daniel turned, shocked.

“I’ll get it!” Before Coralie could stop her, Zora accepted the call and propped the phone against a wineglass.

Roger, no greeting, peremptory: “What’s that you’re doing?”

“Hi, Dad. This is Max.” Coralie shrugged. “You know!”

“Big unit, isn’t he? Rugby guy. He gets that from our side.”

“My father was tall, actually,” Anne said.

“Who’s that?”

Anne picked up the phone and scrutinized it.

“Oh, you must be Adam’s dad,” Roger said. “Hello, mate.”

“Adam’s mother.” Anne was amused. “Anne Whiteman.”

“No offense intended! It’s a compliment being mistaken for a man!”

“What’s your background there, Roger? Trees?”

“Yes, it’s my walk. I’m on the bush track. Here in Canberra. Look, Princess loves it.”

Coralie, who had buried her face in the baby, took a cautious glance at the phone. A ratty creature was prancing along; its tail, a long plume, swayed from side to side.

“What a funny little dog,” Anne said. “A Chihuahua or something?”

“Pomchi. Pomeranian Chihuahua cross. A ladies’ dog, she was Jenny’s—but now she prefers me. Routine. A firm hand. Dogs are like children. They like to know who’s boss.”

Zora, who had paused in the doorway, looked horrified and escaped.

“Hi, Roger,” Adam called over his shoulder from the sink. Anne held out the phone so Roger could see him.

“The man himself!” Roger said. “I’ve been reading your stuff. Merry Christmas to you, mate.”

“Merry Christmas to you , mate.”

“And who’s that next to you with the ponytail?”

Daniel turned around slowly. Anne was still holding the phone up. There was no escape. “Hi, Dad.”

“Good grief, Daniel. That’s new!”

“Oh, it’s…good in the kitchen. For my work. When I cook.”

“And how’s that going over there?”

As far as Coralie knew, Daniel hadn’t worked in a professional kitchen since the day he’d married Barbie. “Great,” Daniel said. “Thanks!”

“Isn’t it awful about the fires?” Anne enunciated very clearly as she replaced the phone on the table.

“Awful!”

“That’s climate change for you,” Anne said.

Coralie’s shoulders touched her ears.

“Actually…” Roger began.

Danger! If Coralie could have squirted ink like a squid, she would have. “What are you and Jenny up to today?”

“Hotel, roast, watch TV with the air con on, walking Princess nice and early before the bushfire smoke gets too bad. We’ll go round to Edwin’s later—you know, Jenny’s son. He’s had a kid, a boy.” Coralie didn’t know. “Nice little guy. No trouble yet—but he will be! Ask Daniel! Boys ruin your life!”

“How old is Edwin’s son?”

“That’s a question for Jenny. Hang on, he was born when I was watching the AFL Grand Final—so that was about three months ago.”

This at least was firmer ground. “Oh! Max is fifteen weeks!”

“Fifteen weeks! It’s been too long,” Roger said. “Time for me to meet him. Jenny wants Paris in the springtime. We’re getting there through London. Week or two, war museum, Churchill War Rooms, love to see this young fella. Tickets are booked for March.”

March? Adam’s deadline was the sixth. Out of sight of the phone, at the sink, Adam’s face was the murderer’s mask from Scream .

“You should stay in Daniel’s Airbnb,” Anne said. “Lovely place. Nothing fancy, but well located. They’ve done a lovely job on it.”

Now Daniel’s face was the mask from Scream .

“Tell me everything, Dad!” Coralie frantically squid-inked.

“All your plans! Email me! Itineraries! Ideas! We can’t wait!

Florence will be so happy to meet you.” She had a sudden horror her father would say Who’s Florence?

Squid, squid, squid! “This must be costing you a fortune! We’ll let you get back to Jenny! ”

“Bye, Dad!” Daniel shouted.

Coralie lunged for her phone and pressed the end-call button.

“I wonder why he thought the catastrophically unprecedented fire season was unrelated to the changing climate,” Adam mused.

“Best not to open all that up.”

“A charming man,” Anne surprisingly said.

Daniel made an ill face. In the corner by the pantry, Madonna leaped to her feet and spun in a circle. “Oh, she needs to go out.” He charged toward the front door.

“I’ll kiss Florence good night,” Coralie said. “Then join you.”

“Give Max to me,” Anne demanded.

Coralie complied.

···

Up in the yellow nursery, Zora cuddled Florence while Sally sat very upright next to them, reading The Paper Dolls . “And…”

They all waited for Florence to shout, Flo with the bow! She didn’t. She was asleep.

“Night, Flo.” Zora wiggled off the end of the bed.

Coralie turned off the lamp. “Good night, little Cheep-Cheep.”

“Wrennie, my little girl,” Adam said. “Night night, sweetheart.”

“Night night, Floss.” On the way out, Sally murmured, “You know what they say.”

“What?” Coralie said.

“A loved child has many names.”

···

Outside, the air reeked of cigarettes. Coralie pulled her coat tighter. “Yuck.”

Dan nodded down toward the shop. “Just did an emergency dash.”

“Gross. What does Madonna think? Her lovely ringlets stinking.”

They looked down at the poodle, snuffling blindly around a council-maintained street tree. “Imagine if his dog was a boy-dog,” Daniel said. “And he let it be called Princess.”

There was no need to ask who the “he” was. He had been he , if not He with a capital H , for the whole of both their childhoods.

“I can’t square that guy on the phone with the Roger we used to know. Anne thought he was charming. Maybe he wasn’t that bad?”

“He let me choose what he’d hit me with, a ruler or a belt,” Daniel said.

“In Jakarta, he hit me with a badminton racquet. That was in front of the gardener, and Alan.” He must have realized Coralie didn’t know who Alan was.

“My friend from school. Who didn’t come back, or talk to me, ever again. But didn’t he do it to you too?”

She remembered running away from smacks, but never actual smacks. Maybe she’d always been fast enough?

Daniel turned to blow smoke away from her. “Which was the house where we had the pool?”

“Brisbane?”

“I saw you get slapped with a rolled-up towel.”

“Oh, on my…” She laughed, embarrassed. “Face?”

“No, legs. I remember seeing you running.”

“If it was Brisbane, I would have been, what—eight? You would have been three and a bit.”

“Florence’s age.”

They stared at each other for a long time.

“I remember reading Boris Johnson’s sister once, in a column. She said they were smacked.” She swiped her phone open and searched. “Yes, look. When they filled the family Wellies with water, they got beaten with a stick. It’s in the Daily Mail .”

Daniel blew out a long stream of smoke. “The family Wellies .”

“Like Wellington boots. Gumboots.”

“I know what they are. What do the commenters say?”

“?‘Stop those three-year-old tantrums before they begin! First time. Then you never have to do it again,’?” Coralie read out.

“Wow, lots of all-caps: ‘It is necessary to prevent future problems,’ this person says. ‘Children are like dogs, they need discipline, and a spank does not have to be hard to get the message home.’ That sounds familiar.”

Daniel bent over and tickled Madonna’s tiny rib cage. She jumped into his hand. He stood up with her cuddled to his chest. “Search ‘Boris Johnson’ and ‘smacking.’?”

“All right.” Coralie searched. “Also in the Daily Mail , from 2012: ‘Parents must have the right to smack their children to instill discipline, says Boris.’ Okay, then.”