"Question," Louise said. "Is it normal to have murderous thoughts about an animated cartoon pig?" She kicked a stone down the path. "Asking for a friend."

She and Ella were walking along the Thames, bundled up in scarves and jackets, and — in Ella's case — a baseball cap and sunglasses. The crisp September air pressed cold hands to their cheeks. Across the river, the sun was a cracked egg yolk, bleeding yellow into the city. Ella blew warm air onto her bare fingers.

"Peppa Pig?" she asked.

Louise nodded. "That's the one."

Her friend's mouth curved. "Vienna loves her, doesn't she?"

This, Louise reflected, was an understatement; in the two-and-a-half weeks she'd been looking after her niece, she'd read about a dozen different Peppa Pig books. Bath books, picture books, pop-up books, lift-the-flap books... it was only a matter of time before Louise began dreaming of the little pink she-devil.

Not that she was dreaming much. You had to sleep to dream, and Louise hadn't slept properly in weeks.

"Maybe I'll start making bacon for breakfast," Louise mused. "Subliminal messaging, and all that."

Ella stuffed her hands into her pockets. "Very smart."

Louise kicked another rock. "Or I could get Vienna a Peppa Pig cake for her birthday. Slice the little monster up."

There would be something satisfying about munching on Peppa Pig's head, Louise thought, and Vienna's birthday was only a month away. Perhaps they could throw in a Peppa Pig pinata, too. Ella smiled.

"Slice Peppa's head off," she asked, "or Vienna's?"

"You see?" Louise stabbed a finger in her direction. "The fact that you're asking me whether I'm planning to carve up my three-year-old niece is exactly why I'm not cut out to be a parent."

Ella shook her head. "That's not true."

"Of course it is." Louise dodged a harried-looking woman pushing a buggy. "Do you remember when we did that life skills course at Lovewood Academy? And we had to keep those eggs from breaking?" She shook her head. "You knitted yours a sleeping bag. I fell asleep in class and knocked mine off the desk."

Ella's smile grew. "And then you went out and bought another egg."

"How did I break that one, again?"

"Fell out a window." Ella paused to pick up a stray smoothie cup, placing it in the bin. "But kids aren't eggs, Louise."

"No," Louise said. "Kids are even more fragile."

She turned towards a yellow truck parked by the river, swathed in fairylights and painted with letters that read "JACK AND JILL'S TACOS." Six people formed a queue, including a young dark-haired couple; the girl — American, judging by her accent — raised her camera. Louise stiffened, stepping protectively in front of Ella. But the girl just snapped a photo of the boy, who rolled his eyes and smiled, muttering something about Ohio.

"You'd be a great Mum," Ella said.

Louise wrenched her eyes from the couple. "How do you know that?"

"Because I know you," Ella said. "You have a good heart, Lou. A youthful heart. Hugh and Vienna adore you."

"They don't need me, though." Louise's voice was quiet. "Nobody needs me. I've never been very... capable."

After all, Louise reflected, she was the baby of the family; all her life, she'd had other people open jam jars for her, and change lightbulbs for her, and teach her how to navigate the London tube system. It had become an ongoing joke. Oh, Louise, Max would say, shaking his head. If we were in a Zombie apocalypse, you'd be the first to go.

Generally, Louise didn't mind. She felt like she was shrugging on the role, the same way that someone shrugged on a coat. It made other people happy to think of her that way, so why would she bother to argue?

But now, Louise wondered if she'd been playing the role of helpless-little-Louise for so long that she couldn't take it off anymore. Could that happen to someone? Could an actor play a character for so long that they became them?

"Don't say that." Ella was pale. "Of course you're needed."

"By who?" Louise's voice was wry.

Ella just shook her head. "You are half of my soul," she said. "The braver half. The charming half. I need you, Lou; I've always needed you."

Ella squeezed her arm. A lump rose in her throat, so Louise looked toward the river, trying to make her voice light.

"How very poetic," she said.

"You think so?" Ella tilted her head. "I'm writing new songs at the minute."

"So many great rhymes in there," Louise mused. "Lou and you. Soul and arseho—"

"Alright," Ella cut in, glancing at a toddler jumping in a puddle. "We're in public. Little ears, remember?"

Louise bumped her. "I love you. Just for the record."

It was about as sappy as Louise got when it came to talking about feelings. Ella smiled. "I know. I love you, too."

They drew closer to the taco truck, and Ella glanced at her phone. The white light threw her face into sharp relief, making her look older and more angular. And indeed, when Ella pocketed the phone, her voice was disturbingly serious.

"Have you decided yet?" Ella asked.

"Yeah." Louise glanced at the menu. "I think I want the shrimp ones."

If it was anyone else, Louise reflected, they would have rolled their eyes and said Louise in a tone of mild exasperation. But this was Ella, who had known her since they collected Silly Bandz and made perfume out of pencil shavings, and so she just stood there and waited.

"I don't know," Louise said, relenting. "I don't know what I want to do about the kids."

Ella's expression didn't change. "Yes, you do."

"I do?"

She nodded. "You're just scared to admit it to yourself."

"Fine." Louise's mouth felt dry. "Let's say that I decide to keep the kids. That means living with Langford."

Ella's forehead furrowed. "Is he really that bad? I like him."

"You're also dating my brother," Louise pointed out. "There's no question that you have poor taste in men."

Ella's smile grew. "I think you like Ben, too."

"I'd like to see him slow-roasted over an open spit, if that counts."

"What a lovely image." Ella fished around in her purse for her wallet. "So you've made up your mind, then?"

"Yeah," Louise sighed. "I suppose I have."

She watched as Ella stretched up on her toes, placing her order at the counter. She'd been wrong before, Louise reflected; when it came down to it, the decision to keep the kids had been much easier than choosing what food to eat. In fact, it hadn't been much of a decision at all, really.

They found Max in the living room.

Her older brother was sitting on the sofa, rifling through stacks of paper. Canadian passports. Airplane tickets. Official-looking legal documents. He looked up as they approached, his face softening as Ella dropped a kiss on top of his head.

"Here." Louise placed a white takeaway carton on the table. "We brought you a taco."

Max looked at it hopefully. "Fish?"

"Obviously," Louise said.

He rose, stretching his arms above his head. "Do we have marmite?"

Louise pulled a face. "Please tell me you're not about to put marmite on that taco. That should be a criminal offense."

"So we do have it," Max said, looking far too smug. "Where is it?"

He looked at Ella, who hesitated. Louise narrowed her eyes.

"Don't you dare," she said.

Ella sighed. "It's at the back of the pantry. I'll get it."

"Traitor," Louise called, and she could have sworn Ella chuckled.

Louise hung up her coat. The smell of Millie's perfume — Jo Malone's Blackberry and Bay — still hung in the air, clinging to the house like a phantom skin. She half-expected to see her sister bustling around the living room, playing piano, or pouring wine or complaining about finding LEGO under the couch cushions. Her hands shook.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Max asked. "Being in the house without them."

Her brother picked up a picture. Louise knew what it looked like: Millie, beaming out of the frame, her hair bleached with sun; she was sitting at a street café in Monaco, fanning her face with a straw hat. Her sister's nose was peeling slightly.

Louise drew closer. "That was on their honeymoon."

"She looks happy." Max ran a thumb over the picture. "James made her happy, didn't he? Not everyone gets that." He looked up at her. Really looked at her, and Max's brow furrowed. "You look tired."

"I'm okay."

"Are you sleeping?"

"Some," Louise lied. "Are you?"

He nodded. "Some."

The Bentley siblings watched each other warily. Two green-eyed liars. Louise fiddled with her bracelet, caught herself, and then balled her hand into a fist.

"I can't believe you leave tomorrow," she said.

"I can stay," Max said immediately. "If you want. I can call off the tour; the boys would understand."

A part of him sounded almost hopeful. But Louise shook her head; The Patriots were the biggest band since One Direction, and their second North American tour had sold out in less than twenty minutes. The fans would burn buildings to the ground if they cancelled.

"Go," Louise said. "I can manage. And you can visit at Christmas." She unwound her scarf. "I've decided that I'm going to keep the kids."

Max's green eyes were steady. "I know."

"Ella told you?"

Louise didn't see how she could have unless Ella had texted him on the walk back. But Max was already shaking his head.

"She didn't have to," he said. "I knew what your answer would be."

Louise hung up the scarf. One of the wooden pegs was coming loose, she noted; she'd have to fix that, if she was going to live here. No, when she was living here. Louise swallowed. Would this place ever feel like home? It felt impossible.

Max set down the picture. "Langford's here, by the way."

Louise twisted around. "He is? Why?"

"I needed back-up," Max said. "Vienna threw all her toys in the toilet." He sat on the sofa. "It flooded the bathroom, and then she ran outside naked and banged on the neighbour's door. I was in a bit of a bind."

"You could have called me."

Louise knew it was selfish, but she felt slightly stung. Did Max really think her that incapable? So helpless that she couldn't work out how to unclog a toilet, or calm a screaming toddler? Max shrugged, popping open his container.

"I didn't want to ruin your night," Max said. "Besides, I wanted to speak to Ben. About... things."

His voice was deliberately vague. Louise's eyes narrowed.

"What things?" she asked.

He waved her off. "Nothing."

"Max." Her voice was short. "Tell me."

He held up his hands. "We just had a friendly conversation. I reminded Langford that if you do move in together, there are certain rules that I expect him to follow. Rules that include separate bedrooms."

Horror rose in her. "You did not."

"I did." Max cracked open a beer, looking far too pleased with himself. "Think I got my point across, too."

"Jesus."

Louise could only imagine how that conversation had gone: Max, playing the protective older brother; Langford, pretending to be terrified while secretly laughing at her brother's theatrics. He'd never let her live this down. Never.

"Alright," Louise said. "I'm going upstairs to do damage control." She wrinkled her nose. "Enjoy your disgusting marmite taco."

"I will."

Louise found Ben in Hugh's room.

He was lying on the carpet, one arm pillowed behind his head; the galaxy projector cast pearl grey clouds and navy twilight across the ceiling. Yellow pinpricks of light twinkled like heavenly cars. Hugh was asleep in his bed, and his glow-in-the-dark rocket pajamas illuminated Ben's face in a sickly green cast.

Louise lay down beside him. He didn't look over at her.

"So," Ben said.

She rested one hand on her stomach. "So."

"How long have you been secretly in love with me?"

Her head snapped sideways. "Excuse me?"

"Well," Ben said, "I assume that's why your brother threatened to tie me up and back his car over me if I hurt you."

"He did not."

"Well, he didn't say it in so many words, but that was the general gist of it, yeah."

Louise groaned. "Overprotective arsehole."

Ben smiled. It was a genuine smile — the kind that people got when they saw a cute puppy, or a John Lewis Christmas advert — and Louise stared. She couldn't remember ever seeing Ben smile like that. Hadn't thought him capable of it.

She rolled on to her side. "I want to keep them."

There was a beat. "Really?"

"Yes." She'd never been more certain of anything. "Are you still up for it?"

Ben exhaled. He shifted, and their fingers brushed; his skin was unexpectedly warm, as if he had been holding a mug of tea. Ben pulled back abruptly.

"I'm up for it," he said.

Louise closed her eyes. "Okay."

The word tasted odd in her mouth. Artificial. A part of her still couldn't believe that this was happening; that this small boy in the bed — his breathing long and lazy, pulled out like caramelized sugar — was going to be her responsibility. Louise swallowed.

"Should we set rules?" Ben asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "What sort of rules?"

"I don't know." Green light pooled in the hollows of his cheekbones. His temples. "I just feel like there should be rules. That's what you do when you move in with someone, right? Set boundaries?"

Louise wasn't sure this was true. But Ben Langford was like a traffic circle in Piccadilly: he dissolved into chaos without clear signage in place.

"Fine," Louise said. "I'll go first. No using my toothpaste; it irritates the hell out of me when people leave the cap off."

Ben considered. Nodded. "No walking around in your underwear."

Louise sighed. She wandered around her flat in a sports bra at least 80 per cent of the time, but never mind; they could negotiate on that later. "You can't leave hair all over the sink after you shave."

"And you can't touch my work things."

"Deal," Louise said. "Oh, and we can't have sex."

Ben made a choking noise. "Christ, Bentley! You can't—" He glanced at Hugh's bed, lowering his voice. "You can't just spring that on me."

"So you do want to have sex?"

She swore his cheeks were red. "I didn't say that."

"Oh, so you don't want to sleep with me?" Louise asked, pressing a hand to her chest. "I don't meet your standards?"

Ben muttered something incoherent. If she were a better person, Louise reflected, she would put him out of his misery — but it wasn't often that one caught Ben Langford off guard, and she was enjoying herself.

Maybe just a little too much.

"I didn't say that, either," Ben said. The colour was fading from his cheeks, replaced by his usual cool composure. "Do you always shag your flatmates?"

"Only the good-looking ones."

Too late, Louise realized her mistake. Ben's mouth quirked.

"You think I'm good-looking?" he asked.

Louise hesitated. "I think you're... not hideous."

This was a lie. Ben Langford was gorgeous. Masculine, dominating, "take-me-on-this-table-right-now" gorgeous. She'd seen enough photos of him shirtless on holiday to know that he went to the gym regularly, and that was before you factored in the jawline sharp enough to chop wood.

It was, Louise reflected, a massive shame about his personality.

"You know, Bentley," Ben mused, "that might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Well, don't get used to it." Her heartbeat slowed. "We have a deal?"

Ben stuck out his hand. "Deal."

Louise gave him a look. "You're joking."

"What?"

Louise pulled a face. She wouldn't be surprised if he whipped out a pen next and made her sign in blood. "God, you're such a lawyer."

They shook.

Ben dropped his hand, adjusting his watch. Louise wondered if he ever took it off — surely, he had to take it off to shower, and to sleep — and then realized with a jolt that she would know the answer to that soon. As of tomorrow, they were moving in together. They were raising kids together.

Everything was about to change.