"I hate those chandeliers," Arabella said. "They have to go."

They were strolling through a ballroom, their shoes making slapping noises. Rain pattered against the stained-glass windows. Arabella was dressed in a black dress and a sparkly blazer today, and her bangles clattered as she pointed upwards.

"That one," she said, "should be illegal."

Louise jotted this down in her notebook. "Replace chandeliers. Noted."

Arabella frowned. Or, at least, Louise thought she frowned; the other woman's skin never seemed to wrinkle. "And can we switch out that tapestry?"

Louise followed her gaze to what was, admittedly, a rather ugly tapestry of a foul-faced devil eating a screaming human. She scribbled in the notebook again.

"Of course," Louise said. "Consider it gone."

Behind them, the venue coordinator cleared his throat. He'd been doing that on occasion whenever Arabella commented on the cobwebs, or pointed out that the garden would need to be fenced to keep in the albino flamingos. Louise and Arabella had come to a swift, silent understanding to ignore him.

Arabella slowed by the exit. Glanced at the floor. "I hate to be picky, but is there any way we can replace this flooring? It's just so outdated." She tilted her head. "I'd much prefer a lighter wood. Think herringbone Oak."

"I'm sure we can do something," Louise murmured, wondering where the hell she was meant to source this much herringbone Oak, and how she could convince the venue to install it within eight weeks.

Arabella continued out to the garden, chattering about place settings and her Aunt Belinda as the venue coordinator hurried forward with a navy green umbrella. Louise's phone chimed. One text from Ben.

Need to work late — can you grab the kids today?

Louise frowned, pausing at the top of the stone steps. Irritation flicked through her. Not because Ben had asked her to get the kids — she understood that he had to work late sometimes, particularly on Wednesdays — but because it was the third time this week. She wedged her notebook under her arm, tapping out a reply.

I have that fashion show, remember?

The launch of a gym wear brand that made leggings out of seaweed fibre, to be specific; it had been on their shared calendar for weeks.

Her phone dinged immediately. I really can't make it out of the office before 7 tonight. Please, Bentley?

Louise nibbled her lip. Weighed up her options. Could she call Ophelia to watch the kids? No; she was visiting Andrew's mother in Cornwall. She could hire a babysitter via a service, Louise supposed, but that felt risky without some prior research and an interview. Could she take the kids to the fashion show?

She pictured Vienna gleefully streaking down the runway, knocking over models like bowling pins, and grimaced.

No.

Absolutely not.

Which left only one option, really.

Fine, Louise wrote. I'll get them. Lasagne okay for dinner?

Her phone dinged again.

Great.

That was it. No, "Thanks." No, "I'll make it up to you." No, "You're a goddamn superhero, Louise Bentley, and I don't deserve you." Louise sighed, pocketing her phone. She didn't need a bouquet of flowers and a pat on the head, but really — was a little gratitude too much to ask for? Was it ridiculous to expect a proper, well-worded text message occasionally?

Then again, Louise thought, maybe Ben was busy at work. Or maybe his boss had shackled Ben's hands to his desk, and he was sending all his texts via Siri. From what Ben had said about Victor White, she wouldn't put it past him.

"Louise?"

She looked up. Arabella was standing at the bottom of the steps, one hand on her hip. The venue coordinator hovered around her like a nervous fly, the umbrella quivering in his hand like a bizarre antenna.

"Can you put your phone away?" Arabella asked.

The other woman's voice was laced with irritation. Louise didn't blame her; she hadn't been listening to a single thing she said — and Arabella was paying her handsomely for her time. Louise pocketed the phone, jogging down the steps.

"Sorry," she said.

Arabella's smile was tight. "As I was saying..."

Louise scribbled more notes, her mind on autopilot: the marble statues were okay, but they needed to be cleaned; the hedges needed trimming; and Arabella wanted fairylights, but the type that "made you look good in pictures," whatever that meant.

By the time they'd finished at the Estate, Louise's stomach was growling. She thanked the venue coordinator, promising she'd be in touch, and then hightailed it for the car. She'd almost made it to the door when Arabella called out.

"Oh, and Louise?"

She turned reluctantly. Arabella was leaning against the door of a white BMW, wearing oversized sunglasses despite the itchy grey skies.

"You got my message about Jack?" she asked.

Louise blinked. "Jack?"

"My fiancé?" Arabella adjusted her sunglasses. "He's flying in from Dubai next week for a meeting. He wants to meet you while he's here."

Shit. Louise blew out a breath; the last thing she needed right now was a big sustainable tech guy swanning in and changing all their plans. But Arabella Cavendish was a client, so she smiled and nodded.

"Of course," she said. "I'll set up a meeting."

Arabella blew a kiss. "Ciao, darling."

Louise drove straight to the office. Sebastian was pacing when she arrived, tugging absently at his blond hair as he spoke into a cellphone. Louise beelined for her desk. She stopped only to pick up a packet of cheddar-and-onion crisps, ripping into them with the same enthusiasm that Vienna used to rip apart their flowerpots.

"That took ages," Sebastian said, setting down his phone. "How was it?"

"Disastrous." Louise dumped her bag on the table. "Arabella wants to replace the flooring. Which — even if I can find the materials — is pretty much impossible, given it's a registered historic building."

Sebastian whistled. "Lots of red tape there."

"Exactly."

She stuffed crisps into her mouth, scribbling a few ideas down. Mostly names of people to call for the Oak flooring. Sebastian watched, looking amused, as Louise raced around the office, gathering files and her laptop charger. It was only when she shrugged on a coat that he raised an eyebrow.

"Are you getting a coffee?" Sebastian asked.

"No, I'm leaving for the day." Louise hoisted her bag over her shoulder. "I need to get the kids. Ben's stuck at work."

His eyebrows rose further. "Again?"

Sebastian sounded disappointed. Not, Louise thought, that she blamed him; as far as employees went, she'd been about as useful lately as fireproof kindling. She shoved her chair back into her desk.

"I know it's last minute," Louise said. "I'm so sorry. I'll find someone to cover me at the fashion show tonight, I promise."

Sebastian shook his head. "That's not what I'm worried about. When was the last time you had a night off?"

"I'm fine," Louise said.

The words were thoughtless. Automatic as a line that an actor delivered on a stage. Louise nibbled her lip. Was she fine? She didn't know. Her sleep was restless again, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd showered.

Monday? Sunday?

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you ever change your mind, I know a great Thai restaurant near here. Spring rolls, green curry, mango sticky rice... the works." He smiled. "I'll even pay for it."

Louise paused. Was he...?

Oh, god.

Was Sebastian hitting on her?

She thought of what Ben had said that night they took Vienna in the hospital, about being jealous of Sebastian at the birthday party. She'd assumed that Ben had made something out of nothing, but what if she'd been wrong?

Or maybe it was nothing.

Maybe Sebastian was just a concerned colleague, trying to convince her to take a break. Yes. That was probably it.

Louise smiled. "I'll let you know."

She was late to pick up Hugh, and even later to pick up Vienna; both kids were cross with her for the rest of the evening. It was only through three picture books, strawberry sweets, and a game of "The Floor is Lava" (Hugh won) that Louise managed to win them back over and wrestle them into bed.

Louise slumped down on the couch.

The house felt oddly quiet without Ben in it. There had been a time — not that many months ago, in fact — when Louise would have relished the silence. She would have poured herself a glass of red wine, flipped on the telly, and binged the first season of Selling Sunset. Possibly while eating a whole tub of ice cream.

Now, the silence was thick. Suffocating.

As if on cue, a key clicked in the lock.

Ben strode in the door. His dark hair was damp with rain, his grey coat so wet that it almost looked black. He shucked off his brogues and scarf, rushing into the living room in a cloud of rainwater and pine.

"I'm sorry," Ben said immediately. "I'm so sorry. Victor was on my ass all day, and my yearly review's coming up, and there's this promotion... and I'm making excuses. I'll shut up." He thrust something at her. "Here. This is for you."

Louise blinked. "What is it?"

"It's an apology merlot."

She looked down at the label — expensive-looking, with a red rooster — and raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that's not a thing."

Ben held it out further. "Do you want the red wine, or not?"

Louise sighed. Took it. "This can't keep happening, Ben." She dragged a chair across the kitchen, standing on it to reach the top shelf. "I don't mind dropping the kids at school, but it's not fair to make me pick them up, too. I have work to do too, you know."

"I know," Ben said. "I'm sorry."

"This is the last time." She stuffed the wine into the cupboard, turning to give him a severe look. "Promise me."

His expression was sober. "I promise."

"Thank-you."

Ben held out a hand. Louise let him help her down, and just for a second, they stood hand-in-hand. His skin was warm and calloused. Rainwater clung to his eyelashes like tears. Her hand ached to reach up and touch one — touch him — and she balled it into a fist.

Ben dropped her hand. "How tired are you?"

"Why?"

The corner of Ben's mouth quirked. "I lost a bet and Aman's making me watch a reality TV show where rich people have to swap wives for a week. Care to join?"

Louise echoed his smile. "Hell yeah."

Later, Louise dreamed of the car accident.

She was sitting in the backseat, watching as the Audi skidded towards them. White airbags exploding. James shouting something hoarsely to Millie, his large hand flying out to protect her. Her sister's wide, terrified green eyes. Louise fought against her seat belt, trying to reach for the wheel. Panic tore out of her chest, twisting into a keening noise, and she thrashed against the restraint, screaming and screaming—

"Bentley?"

She pushed at the restraints.

"Louise, stop! It's me."

Her eyes shot open. Her breathing was a staccato gunshot in the darkness. Cold sweat clung to her temples, and she blinked, trying to focus on the face hovering above her. Green eyes loomed over her.

"Ben?" she croaked.