Madeline looked past Chloe at Ziggy, who was nursing a giant stuffed toy on his lap. Ziggy was the reason they were here today, she reminded herself. Poor Ziggy wouldn’t have been at the party. Dear little fatherless Ziggy. Who was possibly a secret psychopathic bully . . . but still!

“Are you taking care of Harry the Hippo this weekend, Ziggy?” she said brightly. Harry the Hippo was the class toy. Every weekend it went home with a different child, along with a scrapbook that had to be returned with a little story about the weekend, accompanied by photos.

Ziggy nodded mutely. A child of few words.

Jane leaned forward, discreetly chewing gum as always. “It’s quite stressful having Harry to stay. We have to give Harry a good time. Last weekend he went on a roller coaster— Ow!” Jane recoiled as one of the twins, who was sitting next to her and fighting his brother, elbowed her in the back of the head.

“Josh!” said Celeste sharply. “Max! Just stop it!”

Madeline wondered if Celeste was OK today. She looked pale and tired, with purplish shadows under her eyes, although on Celeste they looked like an artful makeup effect that everyone should try.

The lights in the auditorium began to dim, and then went to black. Chloe clutched Madeline’s arm. The music began to pound, so loud that Madeline could feel the vibrations. The ice rink filled with an array of colorful, swooping, whirling Disney characters. Madeline looked down the row of seats at her guests, their profiles illuminated by the blazing spotlights on the ice. Every child was looking straight ahead, little backs straight, enthralled by the spectacle in front of them, and every parent had turned to look at their child’s profile, enchanted by their enchantment.

Except for Celeste, who had dropped her head and pressed her hand to her forehead.

I have to leave him. Sometimes, when she was thinking about something else, the thought came into her head with the shock and the force of a flying fist. My husband hits me.

God almighty, what was wrong with her? All that insane rationalizing. A glitch, for God’s sake. Of course she had to leave. Today! Right now! As soon as they got home from the show she would pack her bags.

But the boys would be so tired and grumpy.

• • •

It was fantastic,” said Jane to her mother, who had called up to ask how Disney On Ice went. “Ziggy loved it. He says he wants to learn how to ice-skate.”

“Your grandfather loved to ice-skate!” said her mother triumphantly.

“There you go,” said Jane, not bothering to tell her mother that every single child had announced after the show that they now wanted to learn how to ice-skate. Not just those with past lives.

“Well, and you’ll never guess who I ran into at the shops today,” said her mother. “Ruth Sullivan!”

“Did you?” said Jane, wondering if this was the real reason for the call. Ruth was her ex-boyfriend’s mother.

“How’s Zach?” she asked dutifully as she unwrapped a new piece of gum.

“Fine,” said her mother. “He’s, er, well he’s engaged, darling.”

“Is he?” said Jane. She slipped the gum in her mouth and chewed, wondering how she felt about that, but there was something else distracting her now, a tiny possibility of a tiny catastrophe. She began walking around their messy apartment, picking up cushions and discarded clothes.

“I wasn’t sure I should tell you,” said her mother. “I know it was a long time ago, but he did break your heart.”

“He didn’t break my heart,” said Jane vaguely.

He did break her heart, but he broke it so gently, so respectfully and regretfully, the way a nice, well-brought-up nineteen-year-old boy did break your heart when he wanted to go on a Contiki tour of Europe, and sleep with lots of girls.

When she thought about Zach now it was like remembering an old school friend, someone she would hug with genuine teary tenderness if they met at their school reunion, and then not see again until the next reunion.

Jane got down on her knees and looked under the couch.

“Ruth asked about Ziggy,” said her mother meaningfully.

“Did she?” said Jane.

“I showed her the photo of Ziggy on his first day of school, and I was watching her face, and she didn’t say anything, thank goodness, but I just knew what she was thinking, because I have to say, Ziggy’s face in that photo does look a teeny bit like—”

“Mum! Ziggy looks nothing like Zach,” said Jane, getting back to her feet.

She hated it when she caught herself deconstructing Ziggy’s beautiful face, looking for a familiar feature: the lips, the nose, the eyes. Sometimes she thought she’d see something, a flash of something out of the corner of her eye, and then she’d die a little, before quickly reassembling Ziggy into Ziggy.

“Oh, I know!” said her mother. “Nothing at all like Zach!”

“And Zach is not Ziggy’s father.”

“Oh, I know that darling. Goodness. I know that. You would have told me.”

“More to the point, I would have told Zach.”

Zach had phoned her after Ziggy was born. “Is there something you need to tell me, Jane?” he’d said in a tight, bright voice. “Nope,” Jane had told him, and she’d heard his tiny exhalation of relief.

“Well, I know that,” said her mother. She quickly changed the subject. “Tell me. Did you get some good photos with the class toy? Your father is e-mailing you this wonderful place where you can get them printed off for . . . How much is it, Bill? How much? No, Jane’s photos! For that thing she has to do for Ziggy!”