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maybe once or twice a month.’
    ‘Yes, that’s what I reckon.’ She paused. ‘Do you think that’s normal?’
    ‘God, I don’t know! What’s normal?’
    ‘I don’t know either,’ she confessed. There was another period of silence before she continued. ‘Do you think we have more or less sex than our friends?’
    ‘Rosie! I don’t know! Do you want me to phone Andy and ask him?’
    ‘No.’ She giggled. ‘I suppose I just want to know that we’re having the right amount for you and that you’re happy.’ She held his gaze, but he didn’t say anything. She noticed the slight rise and fall of his Adam’s apple and felt a wave of love for her man. The last thing in the world she wanted was for him to feel inadequate. ‘I was just thinking that when we first met we had lots of sex, probably every day.’
    ‘Yep, probably.’ He nodded at the TV.
    ‘But it’s got less and less, hasn’t it? And then we had the kids, and now it’s just once or twice a month. I worry it’s not enough.’
    He flashed her a smile.
    ‘I love you, Phil.’
    ‘And I love you too. Mind you, thinking about it, if there’s a bit more sex on offer, I’m not going to refuse.’ He winked at her.
    ‘Play your cards right, Mr Tipcott, and after Big Brother ’s finished, I might just make you an offer.’ Rosie finished her biscuit and enjoyed the warm glow of love that swirled in her stomach. She was happy. This was all she needed: a squidgy sofa, a cup of tea, a stick of shortbread, crap telly and the promise of an early night with the man she loved. I’m a lucky woman.
    They heard the creak on the stairs long before Leona popped her mussed head around the sitting-room door. Rubbing her eyes and swallowing her tears, she trotted in wearing her pink Dora the Explorer pyjamas.
    ‘Oh, Leo! What’s the matter?’ Rosie placed her mug on the floor and held her arms wide open as her little girl took a flying jump and landed next to her on the sofa.
    Phil sat forward. ‘What’s up, my little girlie?’
    Leona lifted her head and tried to stem her tears. ‘I... I had a bad dream.’
    ‘Oh no! What did you dream about? Ssshhh...’ Rosie cooed into her daughter’s hair, trying to calm and reassure her.
    ‘I thought that Naomi’s poo-face rubber was really big... and... and under my bed and it was trying to get me and shove me up its... its nose!’ she managed through her tears.
    Phil pulled his head into his shoulders and fought the laughter that wanted to erupt.
    Rosie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Don’t cry, little Leo. Don’t cry, baby. It was just a dream. You are safe and you are here with Mummy and Daddy and no one and nothing can hurt you.’ She held Leo tight until her tears slowed and her body relaxed.
    ‘C... c... can I sleep with you, Mummy?’
    ‘Of course you can.’ She kissed her child.
    Phil sighed and finished his biscuit.

4
    It was March, a whole month later, and the weather had brightened significantly. It was the time of year when Woolacombe began to have a buzz about it. This was especially so at weekends when incomers from Exeter, Bristol and further afield arrived with their cash and in their cars, queuing for the car parks in an orderly fashion before walking their dogs on the beach. Busy cafés churned out platefuls of bacon and eggs to stave off hangovers, and sticks of rock had last year’s dust wiped from them and were arranged just so in jaunty coloured buckets on the counter tops of the convenience stores.
    The Hunter-wellies-and-waxed-jacket brigade walked arm in arm, whistling for their Labradors to catch up and watching with fascination and envy as the long-haired surfies unloaded their vans, zipped up their wetsuits and waxed their boards. The whole place had the sniff of summer about it. It was the seasonal equivalent of waking on the day of a special event and knowing there was so much to look forward to, an unspoken promise of what would be arriving in just a few short months.
    It was