Kit Lock gets home in the early hours of the morning. Her husband’s shoes are not by the door and his coat is not on the rack. My husband, she thinks. She calls out his name even though it makes no difference and she thinks of calling Christian or Sally but neither of them care. Neither of them ever cared. There’s nothing she can do but hope that he’s okay. That whatever has happened between them, that he’s okay.
She goes up the stairs and crosses the hall. She opens the door to the nursery. She sits slowly on the floor facing the pink wall and touches the fresh paint.