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voice, tight and mean, rang in her own ears. You’re a nag , she thought. ‘Pete, you know we don’t usually —’
    â€˜It’s just a tiny bit, Bonnie, come on.’ Pete moved on to Edie’s bowl. ‘And a little bit for you, Edie-Pedie.’
    â€˜Yeah, but you know we don’t give them sugar. They’ve already got honey on there. And there’s sultanas in it. It’s sweet enough.’
    â€˜Bonnie.’ Pete gave her a look. ‘It’s just this once.’
    Just leave it . You’re making things worse . But she couldn’t help it. She began stacking dishes by the sink. Her hands were shaking. ‘There’s no such thing as just this once,’ she heard herself say, in that pinched voice.
    â€˜Watch out!’ said Doug behind her. ‘Have I got everyone in trouble?’
    Bonnie didn’t need to see. She knew he’d have that grin on again, his head waggling, spoon raised. She was rigid with anger. All she could feel, in the whole room, was him, his presence, taking up all the space. She dropped a fistful of cutlery in the sink, turned and walked with her eyes on the floor to Jess in her chair. She scooped up the baby into her arms and then continued stiffly past the table and out of the room.
    â€˜Hurry up, Edie and Lou,’ she managed to call back once she was safely in the hallway. ‘Swimming this morning.’
    â€˜Yay! Swimming lessons!’ came the yells, and there was a clatter of spoons and a scraping of chairs.
    She stood in the living room holding Jess. She looked at herself in the mirror, her tense face, the lines either side of her mouth. At the sound of Edie and Louie thudding down the hall she lifted her chin and a smile broke over that reflected face — a grim smile of victory.
    Bonnie pulled down her goggles and pushed off the edge. She stroked and kicked, feeling the extra flesh on her legs and arms wobble. She was slow and heavy, but it felt good. On she churned without stopping, at each end turning without pause, ducking again, pushing into the new lap. Twisting her head to take in air and then letting it go in a controlled rush. In, out. In, out. Arms, legs, head, breath, all working, busy, occupied. Thoughts coming and going as if washing through with the water. Images: just-born Jess being passed between her legs by the midwife, little thighs closed coyly like a cherub’s, cord trailing, smears of blood and vernix; a camp site with Pete, long ago, big white trees like ghosts, a wallaby in the dawn, lowering its head to the ashes of their fire; the balcony of a hotel room somewhere once, drinking vodka with Mickey and the others after a sold-out show, listening to Bowie, feeling that this was it, this was the best and happiest she’d ever get; the twins bouncing round and round the spade in their bundled-on clothes; Pete turning away from her to the computer; Doug at the back door, his grin and eyebrows and cockatoo nod.
    She stopped at the shallow end, crouched neck-deep, panting. The din of the enormous room broke over her. She pulled off her goggles and glanced up at the clock and across to the kids’ pool, where Edie and Louie and three other children were bobbing on foam noodles around the teacher. Beyond them Bonnie’s mother sat on a bench, rocking Jess in the pram.
    She pushed off again, breaststroke this time, old-lady style, goggles off, head held high. Why couldn’t she be nice? Be generous to Doug? Like Pete — open-hearted, easygoing. That was what she wanted to be. She concentrated on squeezing the muscles in her thighs and bum. Another swimmer overtook, sending a patter of water into her face. Bonnie shook it off, steadied herself and swam on.
    â€˜Great swimming!’ The teacher held up her hand, and each child in turn jumped to do a high five.
    Louie and Edie came floundering over to the edge. ‘Can we play for a bit?’ called Edie.
    â€˜Sure.