‘Hi,’ Rosa says, immaculate in a bottle-green maxi dress and gold sandals, her eyes taking in the state of the place, the state of me, but she’s too polite to let her features betray her.

‘Hey,’ Jimmy says. ‘Nice to see you, Kirstie.’ His hands are jammed into crisp beige shorts, an expensive looking watch on his wrist. Short and stocky, the man only comes up to Rosa’s nose, but there’s an infectious vitality about him. He radiates charisma.

‘Nice to see you too,’ I say with forced brightness.

‘Can I get you guys a drink?’ Dom asks. ‘Iced water, beer, glass of wine?’

‘No,’ Rosa says, ‘that’s okay, we’re not staying. Just wondered if you’re around on Saturday the sixteenth.’

‘Yeah,’ Jimmy adds, ‘that’s not this Saturday, it’s the one after.’

Dominic looks at me briefly, but I can’t think that far ahead so I shrug my shoulders. He turns back to the couple. ‘Yeah, pretty sure we’re free, aren’t we, Kirst?’

‘Great,’ Jimmy replies. ‘We’re having a barbecue. From three o’clock onwards. Thought we’d better invite all the neighbours – stop you guys from complaining about the noise.’ He and Rosa laugh.

‘Sounds awesome,’ Dom says.

Sounds awful, I think. That means banging music until all hours of the night. ‘What about your triathlon training?’ I ask Dom. ‘I thought weekends were important.’

‘I’ll do an early one,’ he replies. ‘Make sure I’m home in time.’

‘Brilliant,’ Rosa says. ‘We’ll see you then.’

‘Sure you won’t stay for a drink?’ Dom says. ‘I’ve got a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge.’

What about your cycle ride? I want to ask him. What about your vitally important training schedule? I guess it’s top priority until our glamorous neighbours come round.

‘No, that’s okay,’ Rosa says with a twinkly smile. ‘Don’t want to disturb your evening.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Dom insists.

I feel a twinge of embarrassment for my husband. They obviously want to leave, but he’s not taking the hint.

‘Another time, mate,’ Jimmy says, clapping Dom on the back.

I think about Dom going round to the Cliffords’ place without me. I do sometimes worry that Dom yearns to be back in his twenties, like Jimmy and Rosa, free from family life, free from the ties of having a child. Is my husband tired of me?

At least the Cliffords are tactful enough to not mention the drama yesterday. Dom finally lets them leave, then he comes back into the living room to reclaim Daisy. ‘I’ll put her to bed and then I’m off for my bike ride.’

‘Okay.’ I sink down onto the sofa.

‘That was nice of them to invite us,’ Dom says. ‘Should be fun.’

‘I probably won’t go,’ I say, hating how I sound like such a miserable cow. ‘I’ll stay home with Daisy. You go though.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Dom says. ‘Of course you’re coming. We’ll get the grandparents to babysit.’ He notes my horrified expression at that suggestion. ‘Or we’ll bring Daisy with us. It’ll be a laugh.’

‘We won’t know anyone there,’ I say, thinking about the fact that it’ll be rammed with a load of skinny twenty-somethings with shiny hair and glowing skin.

‘It’ll be good for us, Kirst. We need to get back to having fun again.’

He’s probably right. I just wish we could have fun with our own age group. ‘Okay,’ I reply grudgingly.

He gives me a loud, approving kiss and bounds away and up the stairs to put Daisy to bed. I hope he has better luck at settling her down than I’ve had.

I snatch up a hair elastic from the coffee table and tie my hair back. What’s wrong with me? I’m feeling less and less like myself. And I can’t stop thinking about Mel and Tamsin getting all buddy-buddy. I know Tamsin is doing it to upset me. It’s like she’s stuck at age fifteen or something. Why can’t she just leave me alone? If I voiced these thoughts I would sound so unreasonable and paranoid – she has as much right to be friends with Mel as I do. It’s just that I know she’s not doing it for the friendship. She’s doing it to mess with my happiness, through some twisted sense of revenge or jealousy. And if I’m honest, I’m disappointed in Mel. I’d have thought she’d have understood my feelings more. If someone had slept with one of Mel’s boyfriends, I wouldn’t be inviting them over for coffee.

It’s funny, this morning at school I had a brief glimpse of my old confidence and humour. I was the Kirstie that everyone knows, until I got back home again. Everything is shifting around me, and it feels like I can’t trust even those closest to me. Nothing seems solid and real any more. How can everything change so much in such a short space of time? And how can I get back to being me?

---

I lie on the futon, aware of every lump and bump beneath me. Whose idea was it to sew buttons onto the mattress? One of them has come loose and keeps digging into my hip. I have to shift over to the edge to get more comfortable. I’ve checked the locks twice tonight. That’s an improvement on last night, but even the thought of it makes me want to get up and check them again. I will myself to stay where I am, to not give in to the temptation. I squeeze my fists so tightly that my nails dig painfully into my palms. The doors are locked, the windows are closed. I know they are, so why am I torturing myself imagining they’ve somehow popped open again?

Martin wouldn’t try to break in, would he? Not while Dominic’s here. I should try to think about something else, something nice and non-threatening. Daisy, think about Daisy. I picture her chubby cheeks and gummy smile, her mop of dark hair and dark eyes. But the problem with thinking about my daughter is that all my thoughts inevitably turn to her safety. To the fact that someone out there wants to take her. And it is a fact, I’m sure of it. I don’t care that there’s no hard evidence. Don’t they say that a mother’s intuition is always right? Well my intuition has gone into overdrive. I know something is wrong.

The random thought comes to me that it’s bin-collection day tomorrow. I wonder if Dom remembered to put them out. The bins are full to the brim, so we can’t afford to miss a collection. Especially not in this heat. Ugh, I’m going to have to get up and check. I inhale and sit up, a beat of relief in my chest – checking on the bins will give me a legitimate excuse to check the locks again.

First, I lean over the cot and check on Daisy. She’s sleeping peacefully. I could so easily watch her all night, but I manage to tear my gaze away before tiptoeing down the stairs. In the lounge, I head over to the windows, cup my hands around my face and peer out through the glass. I’m relieved to see that both bins are sitting out there at the end of the driveway under the flickering streetlamp. Dom remembered to do it. Now that worry is out of the way, I begin testing the window handles, tugging each one down several times before moving onto the next. As I head into the hall to check the front door, I pause mid-step as an idea comes to me. Something that could possibly get me the proof against Martin that I’m looking for.

I realise I’m only wearing thin cotton shorts and a vest top, so I toy with the idea of going upstairs to get my dressing gown, but I won’t be out there for long. Before I can talk myself out of it, I unlock the front door and step out into the silent night, the fresh air cool against my bare arms and legs, the road quiet and still, just the faint hum of the streetlamps and the whisper of a breeze. I shiver and pick my way, barefoot, down the pathway, wincing as I step on a sharp piece of gravel.

Going out in the early hours of the morning seems to have become something of a habit. Before last week, I had never had problems sleeping and I would never dream of going outside at this time of night. But if I’m going to keep my family safe, these are the things I must do. Nevertheless, my blood zings through my body, all my nerve endings buzzing with energy, my muscles taut, senses alert.

I turn left out of our drive and stay close to Martin’s hedge, fairly confident he wouldn’t be able to catch sight of me if he were looking out of any of his windows. I keep tossing surreptitious glances up to his house, the top strips of his dark windows like blank-eyed stares. The only other residents who would be able to see me from this angle would be Mel or the Cliffords. Hopefully they’re tucked up in their beds.

Martin’s wheelie bins stand at a perfect right angle to his driveway, lined up against the kerb like soldiers for inspection, handles facing outwards to make it easy for the refuse collectors. The plastic receptacles gleam like new beneath the street light. One of them is for everyday rubbish, the other is for recycling. I’m going to have a quick peek inside. Perhaps I’ll find something incriminating.

The only problem is that once I step over to the bins, I’ll be in full view of Martin’s windows. I’ll need to be quiet and I’ll need to be quick. I glance all around me and creep over to his recycling bin first. Maybe I’ll find packaging for nappies or milk formula. I should have brought my phone with me so I could photograph any evidence. But as soon as I spot something fishy, I’ll have cause to call the police and then they can deal with him.

I ease up the lid and gently fold it back. The bin is only half full, not like ours, which is overflowing every week. I have to lean over to get a good look inside. The streetlight is on, but I could have seen the contents much better if I’d thought to bring a torch. So far, all I can make out are newspapers and flattened packs of ready-made custard. I gingerly delve a bit further, wrinkling my nose in distaste. Beneath the newspapers are empty tin cans lined up on their sides – tomato soup, apricot halves, prunes, condensed milk, chilli con carne—

‘Hello, Kirstie.’

I go cold at the sound of Martin’s voice.