‘Show him Nicky,’ Tina said to Bette.

‘You missed a ticket?’

‘Oh, yeah, my thing’s in the kitchen. Go on, show him Nicky.’ 

Bette worked her phone. ‘We’re all sweaty.’

‘Even so.’ 

‘You’ll get the ticket?’ 

‘You’ll let the baby play with the horse?’

They held eye contact. Bette forced an easygoing laugh. Then she said to Dani, ‘Is that okay? She’s very gentle.’ 

‘Knock yourself out,’ Dani said, with a glance at Tina.

Bella walked on with Penny and Bette took Nickel to a hitching post around the corner before going inside to wash her hands. She could hear talk about Shane arriving on Friday, and a trip Dani was taking next month. A wedding in the Bahamas. Childcare undecided.

‘Artie can stay here,’ Tina said. Then she called through the open door: ‘Right, Bette?’

‘Of course!’

‘It’ll be fu-u-un . . .’ Tina went on, in a baby-talk lilt. Then, deadpan: ‘He can do spreadsheets, right?’

Dani laughed and accepted the offer. Bette dried her hands, went and picked the baby up and headed back to the horse. 

Nickel snorted when she saw Bette and baby approach.

‘Heyyy . . . Nickel, sweetheart, this is Arturo. Arturo, this is Nickel.’

The baby had gone rigid, his eyes huge as he took in this enormous stimulation. Then he relaxed and reached out, hand like a tiny chubby starfish. Bette edged closer. 

‘There you go,’ she murmured, letting Artie touch Nickel’s velvety nose. ‘She’s soft, isn’t she? Now, Nicky is what’s called an Andalusian grey. She’s very smart and very intuitive. And Nicky, this here is a baby boy . . . A beautiful, beautiful baby boy . . .’

Her voice broke as tears closed her throat.

Still.

Even now, it could take her off at the knees. The life that never was; the loss that first brought them down. 

Except that wasn’t right, was it? Their son was blameless in that dark long-ago, the fault all hers for failing to navigate emotion. She’d got better at it, but sometimes the wiring kicked in and she only realised she’d been Melvyn-ing it after the fact, usually when Tina was mad at her. ‘The answer to too much work is not more work,’ she’d said last night, and Bette had wanted to reply that, while that was probably true, too much work can be a way to survive a world you can’t control. But she didn’t. She kept the peace, stayed focused, just like she had on Monday . . .