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The house was in “an absolute state.” (“The state of it…” an English person would say, really about anything—from a minor breach of queuing etiquette to having five Tory PMs in thirteen years.)

Giving up the big front bedroom had not been much of a sacrifice for Zora.

As soon as Tory Tom had moved out of Bartholomew Road, Marina had given her the entire top floor as a “teen retreat.” It would be another “mature divorce,” handled like civilized grown-ups.

At Rupert’s parents’ evening, his teacher had asked how he was coping with a “broken home.” “Broken home!” Marina exclaimed.

“Rup’s doing very well out of it, thank you very much.

” At Tom’s plush bachelor flat near King’s Cross, the App Store on Rup’s new iPad didn’t require a passcode.

Every time he bought Minecoins and Robux, Marina received an email—but since it was hooked up to Tom’s Visa, she didn’t feel the need to mention it.

Tom had checked out mentally from his job as Member for Eastbourne and had removed it from his barrister profile.

At Westminster, workshops were being held for Tory MPs on how to update their CVs.

Labour was predicted to win the next election in a landslide.

Coralie would believe that when she saw it!

In Australia, the nation would soon vote on the Indigenous Voice to Parliament, a step on the long road to reconciliation.

Coralie’s childhood friend Elspeth had emailed her out of the blue: Happy birthday for next week.

I can’t believe we’re so old—can you? P.S.

Is this your dad? I see he hasn’t changed.

She included a pic of a page from the right-wing Daily Telegraph .

Four men and one woman had been interviewed on the street about the Voice.

Her father gazed out at her from the passport-size photograph: lean, ageless, confident, superb.

“I’d advise caution,” read the quote from Roger, seventy-four.

“When you take the boot off someone else’s neck, they always put it on yours. ”

Coralie had hoped to have the house finished by the time everyone came for Maxi’s birthday.

There’d be Lydia and Nancy, who’d start preschool in two days.

Lydia would stay to help, as would Alice.

She’d bring Beauty to play with Flo—they were in the same class at school at last. Max would have his Montessori friends: Ottilie, Lyron, Bowie, and Mo.

But four hours before the party, the hall outside their bedrooms was still piled high with books and toys and mess.

She would have to make upstairs off-limits—that was probably a good idea anyway.

Last time Lydia had come round, Nancy and Max had disappeared.

When they’d returned, giggling, their faces had been covered in lipstick.

Anne and Sally arrived early and inspected the changed-up rooms. “Beautiful, Coralie.” Sally clasped her elbow.

“You’ve done a wonderful job.” If she didn’t mind, Sally said, she had just one suggestion.

Could Zora’s painted door move to her new room, and she’d do another one for Florence?

Of course—Flo would love it. Sally went off in search of the paints.

When Coralie went upstairs to check on progress, she discovered what Flo had asked for: Daddy doing a belly flop in the pool on holidays; Max picking his nose; herself as a seven-year-old, and Coralie as one too.

“Make us holding hands,” Flo said. “If she was my age, she’d be my friend. ”

“What is she now, then?” Sally asked.

“Silly,” Flo said. “Just Mum! Oh, and Zora is with us. She’s my age too. But I’m in the middle. And the tallest.”

“And the last panel?”

“Zora, Daniel, Barbie, um, Lady Diana Spencer.” (This was Daniel’s new black rescue poodle; sweet old Madonna was RIP.) “And you, and Anne, and my gymnastics teacher, Marley. Oh, and Catty. And Bluey off the TV.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Mama,” Max called from the bathroom. “Come and see my poo.”

His birthday badge with a 4 on it had come undone and the pin was gaping open. Coralie refastened it, wiped his bum, and quickly flushed the toilet.

“Mama!” Max wailed. “You didn’t see my squiggly poo.”

“Was it a funny shape?”

“No, it had noodles in it that moved.”

Bad news. She sent an SOS to Adam: Max has worms.

A howl from the garden told her the message had been received.

“You’ll need some mebendazole,” Anne said downstairs. “I’ll get it, my step count today is a disgrace.”

“I’ll get it,” Coralie said. “I have to pick up the cake.”

“I’ll come.” Adam poked his head through the French doors. “You’ll probably need a hand.”

This was a transparent ploy to get out of setting up the trestle table and chairs. But Anne just pulled Max onto her lap and waved them both away. They couldn’t believe their luck. They snuck out while they could.

“Granny,” Max was saying. “Can we play BPM?”

“What’s BPM?” Coralie whispered at the door.

“It’s where they look at the Health bit of her Apple Watch,” Adam said. “Maxi thinks that it’s a game.”

The hollyhocks near the estate bins were waving in the breeze.

Above them, the seagulls soared and dipped and screamed.

The summer had been a washout, but suddenly it was warm.

Adam had taken a month off. When he went back to the studio, it would be to host the show at midday.

Drop-offs, dinners, bedtimes—he was back.

Coralie had started freelancing. Her latest project had ended right before the holidays.

Over the summer she had finished a draft of her novel.

Lydia was reading it now, and she was reading Lydia’s.

Every night from eight o’clock they exchanged screenshots of their favorite quotes.

Genius, the captions said. Genius, genius, genius!

In a week, yes, Coralie would be forty. And yes, she was feeling glad about it.

“Worms!” the woman in the pharmacy exclaimed. The other shoppers cocked their ears. “You’ll need the family pack.”

“Oh,” Coralie said. “I don’t think we have them.”

Adam bowed his head, dejected. “Speak for yourself.”

The woman slid two boxes across the counter. “Liquid for kids, tablets for you. Change your sheets, take the tablet, have a shower, change your clothes. In that order.”

They emerged into the busy Saturday market, red in the face and laughing. “Oh, look,” Coralie said. “The flat’s for rent.”

They stared up at Coralie’s old flat. “Good old flat,” Adam said. “I wish we could spend just a day in there, alone. Just the two of us, and our millions of microscopic threadworms.”

“Romantic,” Coralie said.

“Very romantic,” Adam said. “ I think.”

They pulled to the side of the market and shared a lingering kiss. “I don’t mind that you have worms,” Coralie said.

“I don’t mind that you’re pretending you don’t.”

When they got back, Zora was over, Daniel had arrived with Lady Diana, and Lydia had come with Nancy. Everyone was in the garden, hanging bunting in the bay tree and stuffing the pinata with sweets.

“I hear you have worms,” Lydia said. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m keepin’ well out of it,” Daniel made his new poodle say in a Cockney voice.

“I personally don’t ,” Coralie said, “have worms, actually.” She looked around. “Where’s Adam?”

He came outside looking flushed. “What’s in Daddy’s pocket?” Flo asked.

“Gather round,” Adam said. “And quickly, before the guests arrive.”

Coralie looked around, confused. When she looked back, Adam was down on one knee. Zora’s new film camera clicked.

“Oh my God!” Lydia cried.

“Lawd!” the poodle said.

From his back pocket, Adam pulled out one of the worm boxes. “That was a joke,” he said when everyone laughed. “But this isn’t—Coralie. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you.”

“It’s been ten years!” Zora said.

“Ten years?” Florence was astounded.

“Ten and a half,” Coralie faintly said.

“That’s nothing.” Anne put her arm around Sally and pulled her close.

“And I was hoping…” Adam pulled another, smaller box out of his back pocket. “You might consider making it official.”

“I helped him choose this,” Zora said.

“Ooh,” everyone said when he popped the box open to show the ring.

“Three little stones in the gold. See?” Zora nodded at Flo and Max. “They’re meant to represent us.”

“Thank you,” Coralie mouthed.

“Coralie Bower. Ow.” Adam wobbled. “My knee’s hurting, I’m so old.”

“Silly,” Anne said.

“Will you marry me?”

They knew each other now—properly. The rest of their lives could begin.