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She woke at nine the next day with a sense of unreality and a very furry mouth.

Daniel had given her one of Barbie’s sleeping pills.

She was downstairs in Amhurst Road, in the guest suite they kept for Barbie’s sons.

How nullified she felt, how empty. But because no one was around her, needing things from her—how safe.

If she could just be herself for a while, be by herself, and for herself—she might begin to get back on her feet.

Upstairs, Daniel made her toast with butter and honey.

As she held her coffee cup in both hands, she felt as shattered as she had both times after giving birth.

But now there was no perfect baby to look after.

There was just fucked-up, pointless old her .

It was horrible. Tears slid down her cheeks.

“Go to someone else’s house if you want to cry like that,” Daniel gently teased.

“Sorry,” Coralie whispered.

The doorbell chimed. After a few minutes, Daniel brought Adam in.

“Oh,” Adam said. “Sweetheart.”

“I can’t smile.”

“You don’t have to.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind. She rested her chin on his forearm as though his hug had snapped her neck.

They all sat at the table. Adam accepted a tea. “Where’s Barbie?”

“Pilates.”

“Well, then,” Adam said. “What are we going to do about our Coralie?”

“Do you know what you want to do, Cor?” Daniel asked.

Die , she wanted to say. Or be alive again. But not be like this, a dead person going through the motions. A dead mother scaring the kids.

What she wanted was to be alone somewhere safe. But she couldn’t be without her children. And she couldn’t be with her children, not in that ceaseless, unrelenting way. She tried to explain that.

“And what about me?” Adam’s face, which had been attentive and tender, became white with sudden terror.

“Remember my flat,” she said. “When we met.”

“Of course.”

“You stayed there. And I stayed at yours. You didn’t make us be together. You let me be on my own. It helped me,” she said, “to fall in love.”

“You’re never on your own anymore.” Daniel watched her. “Are you, Cor?”

She shook her head, tears sliding out again. “I don’t exist.”

“The Graham Road flat,” her brother said. “One of you can stay there—but who?”

“I will.” Adam raised his hand. “I’ll take the kids and let Coralie rest at home.”

He couldn’t do that. The way she’d set everything up—the house was holding the children when she couldn’t.

And she couldn’t sleep in her own bed. The thought of that bed made her heart race.

And she couldn’t keep Adam out of his own home.

She’d always be sitting to attention, waiting for him to come in, adjusting her face to his face, intuiting his needs and meeting them.

The way she had with Richard. Even with Antoinette.

The way she had all her life with her dad.

We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It hadn’t been easy for her.

“I’ll stay in the flat,” she said. “But I need to see the children. But not too much. And I need to not see you . I’m so sorry.”

Daniel put the mugs in the dishwasher as Coralie and Adam both cried.

“For how long?” Adam said.

She didn’t know.

···

Daniel walked her to the flat past Marks Adam would be picking up Flo from school.

How would he manage being on the radio next week without Coralie?

Who would have the children? When she tried to think it through, her breathing quickened, and her head started to spin.

He would have to solve it. She couldn’t.

cor . Zora texted at five, in the all-lowercase style she had affected since the beginning of Year 9. can i ask you a lil q? where’s the spinny bit of the stick blender?

Coralie could see it in the bottom drawer inside the cake tins as if she were standing right in front of it. But she found she couldn’t reply.

so sorry cor. dad just told me not to disturb you. so sorry about that. love u. zor.

···

At seven, a message arrived from Adam. One word: Ready.

She had asked him not to text too much. But one word?

It seemed cold. Was he cold? Was he angry?

Did he hate her? After a second, another one arrived.

CYK. Okay. It was right this time. It was helpful.

She could manage. She walked out of the flat on Graham Road.

Five minutes later, she was at her own front door on Wilton Way.

Down on the corner, Adam gave her a salute.

He walked away, and she went inside. The children had their pajamas on, ready to be put to bed.

Reading. Cuddling. At eight, she tiptoed downstairs. Ready , she texted. CYK.

···

An hour with them. An hour she could handle. She did it on Saturday night. On Sunday, when she did it again, a note was waiting for her on the bottom step.

Dearest Cor,

Anne and Sally will be arriving tomorrow. They’ll cover after school until after radio on Monday to Thursday. They’re happy to text you when the children are ready for bed.

CYK forever,

Adam

···

On Monday, at a little past seven, Sally texted.

She braced herself to deal with Anne. Would she be mocking, or (worse) scathing?

Coralie, don’t be silly. But as she rounded the corner near the pub, she saw them waiting in front of the house.

As she approached, they waved goodbye. They walked away holding hands.

Thank you , she texted at eight when she left. And she meant it.

···

On Friday, Adam was back in charge. He messaged her at seven. She messaged him at eight. When she left, the sun was bright, high and scorching. She looked back down the road. He was standing there, watching. She raised her arm. He raised his. That was enough.

···

She remembered when they’d first met, how joyfully they’d opened themselves up and knitted themselves back together, every thread of her fused with every thread of him.

What had happened to her? How could a person have everything they ever wanted and still be empty?

How could a person be surrounded, always, by people they loved—and yet still feel alone?

In the back garden of the house on Graham Road, a funny thing had happened to a tree.

It was, or had been, a birch. Over time, ivy had grown round it, bending the tree within.

Now the ivy was as thick as her forearm, and the tree inside was crushed.

Could two living beings entwine without one of them having to die?

···

On Saturday, when Adam texted “Ready,” she let herself into the house, hurried upstairs, and threw herself onto Florence’s bed.

Her children jumped on her, comb marks in their wet hair, their beautiful faces shining.

She read to them and cuddled them. She put them in bed, then back into bed when they got out.

She shushed them when they chatted. She sat in the corner until they slept.

This was what she’d thought being a mother would be like. Doing one thing at a time, and kindly.

Ready , she texted Adam, and tiptoed down the stairs. As she clicked open the door, she heard the sound of someone rushing from the kitchen. She turned in shock. “Zora!”

“Oh, that’s nice!” Zora was furious. “She remembers me!”

Adam would be on his way back. “Zora,” she said again.

“Sorry,” Zora said. “Did I break the rules? The rules of whatever this is? Sorry for speaking to you, Coralie. Sorry for existing! Sorry for needing you!”

“Oh, Zor.” She could hear Adam’s footsteps on the pavement outside. “I have to go.” And she ran out the door, past Adam, and along Wilton Way, hating herself.

···

She stayed awake half the night, waiting for a breeze to stir the curtains.

It would hit forty degrees next week; that was what the papers said.

Forty degrees in London? She couldn’t believe it was real.

At one, she dropped off to sleep. At six, tangled sheets damp with sweat, she woke to find a message on her phone.

write to me as soon as you get this , Zora had texted. i have something i want us to do.

···

Fourteen, and almost as tall as Coralie, Zora had arranged the whole outing, efficiently setting out the plan.

But as soon as they met at the station, and before she even said hello, Zora offloaded two big bags into Coralie’s arms, just like she’d used to do at pickup.

She was still a child, and Coralie was still the adult. It was a relief to be handed the stuff.

By eight, they were marching up through Hampstead Heath, ground still baked from the day before, grass and wildflowers dry and brown and brittle. “Are you sure we’ll be allowed? Don’t you have to book?”

“Not this early in the morning,” Zora said.