The garage flat stood at a right angle to the Cavendish’s Victorian house, below and behind its garden. Gemma locked the flat’s yellow door, then they climbed the steps that led up from the garage forecourt. Squeezing through the iron gate, they picked their way along the flagged garden path in the dark, Toby leading as comfortably as a cat. The flat’s windows were now at a level with Gemma’s knees, and glancing down, she could see through the half-open slanted blinds. Empty, the flat looked serene in its simplicity, yet lived in, and with a jab of awareness Gemma realized how much she loved it. To her it represented escape from the conventional, semidetached life she’d been expected to embrace-and independence, for she could afford it without help and without strain.

Toby reached Hazel’s back door first and let himself in, as at home here as he was in his own flat. Gemma, trailing, entered the kitchen to find Hazel’s husband, Tim, stirring something on the cooker, and the children chanting, “Chocolate, chocolate,” like little demons. Hazel referred to them as Night and Day, for blue-eyed Toby’s fair hair was straight, and Holly had inherited her mother’s curls, along with her father’s dark hair and eyes.

A clinical psychologist, Hazel had taken leave from her practice to care for her small daughter, and had soon insisted on taking Toby as well-on the grounds that two were much easier to entertain than one. She charged Gemma the going rate for child-minding-though Gemma suspected this had more to do with salving her pride than Hazel’s financial gain-and never seemed fazed by the demands of the boisterous three-year-olds.

“Fancy a milky drink while we watch the video, Gemma?” Tim flashed her a welcoming smile, just visible through his dark beard.

Giving her husband an affectionate pat as she passed, Hazel said, “I think Gemma and I will join you in a bit, love. We’ve a weekend’s worth of gossip to catch up on.” She moved efficiently about the kitchen, fetching mugs, spoons, and the Cadbury tin.