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direction. ‘What are you going to do about the wasps . . .’ And that sounded like nagging, when she absolutely didn’t want to nag – this their last night – last night together before he’s off – the two of them making the memory he’ll take with him. ‘I mean, they’re still coming in. It’s odd.’
    â€˜Mm.’ He rubbed hard at his hair, made it stay lifted, disordered, so that when his hand fell he seemed softer, seemed perfectly and precisely lovable. He turned to her. ‘I’m sorry – What?’ His expression was polite. Yes, that was the word for it – polite. ‘Wasps . . .’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Well, I did check. You saw me. I checked. And there wasn’t a nest, a colony, something like that. Not anywhere near. There was nothing.’
    â€˜I wondered where they come from, that’s all.’
    â€˜They’re getting in through a closed window – that’s what I don’t understand. All shut up tight, but still they get in at me. It shouldn’t be possible.’
    â€˜But it is.’
    And this the point where it had happened again –
still they get in at me –
a safe conversation becoming unwieldy, changing its face. She’d tried not to consider if he thought this when he met the women, when he first saw in them whatever it was that he needed, wanted, and began the process, the arrangements, the exchanges he found necessary. Did he look at them and decide, was there hesitation, wonderment? –
still they get in at me.
    Ray had grinned at her, winked. ‘Never mind the wasps, though. Let’s say goodbye.’
    â€˜Goodbye.’ His right to make this mean hardly anything, or everything –
goodbyegoodbyegoodbye
– and her right to not know.
    â€˜You know what I mean.’
    When she does not.
    His grin wider. ‘You do know.’ It touches her, cold on her forehead and in her hair, lifting.
    He’d extended his arms, very tender, easy, warm – the husband who wants to hug his wife and then take her to bed and croon damp words in her ear, small encouragements, as if she were an animal in need of guidance, maybe liable to shy away at the more demanding drops and slopes and jumps. ‘Come on, love. It’ll all be okay.’
    And she did step in, did almost tumble towards him – his long arms wrapping round her, friendly.
    â€˜Hello.’ Cheery, he’d sounded.
    She hadn’t answered, not being especially cheery herself.
    Now she waited for him in the kitchen as the boys hacked at their food and took too much ketchup because they could tell when she wasn’t paying enough attention to make them stop. In the garden, wind was clawing at the flowers, breaking things, the trees wild with it beyond the fence.
    â€˜All right, then.’ Behind her, Ray was standing, very neat. She shifted her chair round and saw the business suit – which she’d expected – and the coat – which wasn’t entirely unanticipated, either. He was already wearing his coat. He never did like hanging around. Sam understood the situation as quickly as she did, shoving his chair back and rushing to hold his father’s legs. Jimbo followed, but was more hesitant – as if he might have the power to carelessly make something worse.
    â€˜You’re not going yet.’ Sam muffled, his face pressed hard to Ray’s trench coat. ‘Too soon.’
    She heard herself having to ask, ‘Yes, couldn’t you eat something? With us?’
    â€˜Sorry.’ He took hold of his children’s collars and began to tug them back and forth, play-fighting, casual strength in the thin forearms, wiry cunning. The boys squealed and he shook them more, going slightly too hard at it, the way that he usually did, until their faces were still pleased, but their eyes were very mildly afraid.
    Ray shrugged at her. ‘Slept in. You should have woken