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not?’ Eve protested. ‘It’s only your sister and her husband, both old friends of mine who know me better than . . . anyone.’ She stopped herself in time from
saying ‘than you’. That would be too hurtful. But it was true.
    ‘Maybe, but you should take it easy all the same. Give your liver a breather.’ He laid his hand on hers to reassure her that he was only thinking of her own good.
    She snatched her hand away. ‘If my liver needed help, I’d know about it. Drink oils the wheels sometimes, that’s all. And anyway, I enjoy it.’ She was uncomfortably aware
that this was beginning to sound like the self-justifying rant of an alcoholic. ‘You may not, but other people do know the difference between being a drunk and having fun.’ There. She
waited for his reply.
    But Terry was already on his feet, heading back to the hammock. She punched the cushion. He could be so maddening sometimes. Making his point was always enough. Her thoughts on the subject were
irrelevant. The pleasant drowsiness brought on by the combination of sun, exercise, good food and drink had all but evaporated in her irritation. She watched his familiar bouncing gait, his slim
physique. She reached for the sun cream and began massaging it into her cleavage. As she did, she was reminded once again of the cruel truth that while her body showed the evidence of time and the
rigours of childbirth, his had remained comparatively untouched by the passing years. Even so, the Speedos were still a mistake, bought as a joke when they’d gone together to the South of
France a couple of years ago. But if he was the same as ever, why didn’t she find him as attractive as she once had? Pondering the matter, she picked up her BlackBerry and checked her emails.
Still nothing from Amy.
    She brought up Amy’s address and quickly typed:
    Any problems? Eve
    She hesitated. That rather suggested she expected there might be, which was unfair. If you didn’t count the weekend, she’d only been out of the office for less than a day. Perhaps
she was being too abrupt. She added an x after her name – the kiss that took the sting out of any email. Then she deleted it for not being sufficiently businesslike and added:
    Do get back to me re Rufus’s contract. And have you had time to look at the new Alasdair King illustrations yet?
    She reread the message. Too authoritarian? But what if it was? It was important to establish which of them was in charge and what was still expected of Amy, whatever her job title. All the same
 . . . She reinstated the x, then sent the email without more ado and moved on to the most pressing incoming messages, reading a few of them, replying, then stopping. There was nothing more here
that couldn’t wait a couple of hours for an answer. She slid the phone into the shade beneath the lounger, closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the moment.
    Halfway down the corridor to the stairs, Rose had second thoughts. She was so confused and upset, so unsure of the right way to handle her discovery. If she was right, if
Daniel was having an affair, she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him just yet. Not even to discuss Jess. She was frightened of what she might blurt out in the heat of the moment, and
worse, of what he might say in reply.
    Instead she turned in to the small studio room where she kept all her painting materials. She stripped off, hung her shift on the back of the door and put on the smock and skirt that hung beside
it. She found a talismanic comfort in their familiarity and would draw or paint in nothing else. She picked up a large sketchpad and her bag, put on her hat and left the house.
    She heard the sound of voices by the pool. Terry and Eve. Bickering probably. Their relationship seemed to flourish on their differences, a way of relating that Rose couldn’t imagine for
herself. From the outside, their marriage couldn’t be more different from hers and Daniel’s. But now she wasn’t sure any