‘Karsten,’ she whispered. But it was a weak protest. She felt like dough between his hands; she felt kneaded and rolled and poked with a fork.

‘Lily,’ he whispered, mimicking her voice.

They fell together on to the sofa.

They didn’t hear a peep out of the child beneath the tree.

Afterwards they ate in silence.

He said nothing about the meal, or about the table that had been so beautifully set, but he continued to look at her with approval. Lily, the eyes said, the things you do. He had green eyes, large and clear. Because she wanted to stay thin, she tried not to eat too much, even though the quiche was delicious. Karsten was also thin. His thighs were rock hard. A thick mane of dark hair, always a little too long in the back, made him look cheeky and attractive. She couldn’t imagine him gaining weight and losing his shape, or his hair, as many men did when they approached forty. She saw it happening to others, but it didn’t apply to them. Nothing could sever what they had together, neither gravity nor the test of time.

‘Will you clear the table?’ she asked when they had finished eating. ‘I’ll get Margrete.’

Immediately he began to collect the plates and glasses.

He was quick and a tad abrupt in his movements, clacking the porcelain between his fingers, and she held her breath; she’d inherited it from her grandmother. She went into the hallway to put on her shoes. She opened the door to the warmth of the sun, the mild, gentle breeze, and the smells from the grass and forest. Then she rounded the corner of the house and walked towards the maple.

A terrible foreboding came over her.

She had shut Margrete out of her mind.

She moved faster now, to make up for what she’d done. Something about the pram was strange, she thought.