Edward scratches his left ear. He sighs. Replaces the receiver. Our son, Jake, is not answering his call. I get up from the stool. Busy myself at the sink. 'What's up with you?' My husband detects my irritation.

I say nothing. He shrugs, shoving big hands into sagging pockets of his old jeans and draws out his words like a preacher, 'I'm not stopping you.' Leaving the kitchen, he sidles back in again, waits for my silence to break. I step over to the fridge, stick my head inside, feeling coldness soothe hot cheeks. Withdrawing my head, glancing over my shoulder, I see that he's left the kitchen. Restless, I gaze out of the window past the bird table onto our long back garden.

Through autumn twilight, there is a finger of smoke rising up from our dying bonfire reminding me of the time when pregnancy bulged my stomach and Edward, stroking that bulge, gazed out at frozen whiteness and said, 'I'll grant you three wishes.'

Revelling in his expression of love and anticipation, I replied, 'I wish our garden to be a garden burgeoning with fruit and vegetables. I wish our new home to be a happy home. I wish for a healthy child.'

Lifting me off my feet, he whirled me around and I, snuggling my head into his shoulder, breathed in his scent of woodsmoke and aftershave.

The phone rings interrupting my memories. I answer it. 'Dad's left four messages on my answer phone!' Jake, our only son, sounds impatient.

Ignoring his ill humour, asking him how he is, he replies in a defensive tone that university life isn't all about drugs and drunken orgies.

Refusing to bite, I casually mention that his father wondered if he could make it home for the match next weekend. 'No,' comes the immediate response.

'That okay. It's just...' I stop, not wanting to sound like a whingeing mother.

Now Jake's mood lightens. He's talking about his friends. A gig he went to. Then a silence grows. My eyes blur. But now he's asking if there's something wrong.
I want to tell him about our invitation to Samantha and Richard's anniversary party, a party his father refuses to attend. I want to say that, once, we enjoyed a good relationship with our neighbours. I want to confide in our son, tell him all has changed since Samantha's fortieth birthday party, six months ago.

In the background, young voices call out to Jake. 'Got to go,' he says and the obligatory call home comes to an end.

Edward is standing in the doorway with an expectant look on his face. Shaking my head, my husband hunches broad shoulders, making his shirt rise up like a hump. Ageing him. 'Cup of tea?' I offer, my movements brisk. He turns and leaves the kitchen.

Music reaches me. Going over to the window, looking out across the garden at a blaze of light coming from nextdoor's recently erected conservatory, I see tops of heads. Hear laughter and I envy the guests conviviality which Edward and I once shared with our neighbours.

Samantha, petite with an hour glass figure, wears lush auburn hair to slender shoulders. She's funny, considerate and flirtatious while Richard, her husband, tall, slim and thoughtful, seems to bask in his wife's effervescence.

Our back garden, illuminated by next door's light, looks shabby and now the dying bonfire squats, black and lifeless while next door's garden still brings exotic places to mind.

'Damn noise!' Edward yells from the lounge.

Closing my eyes, I draw in deep breaths, remembering Samantha's birthday party. Their dining-room became a dance floor and, beneath a silver ball spinning diamond lights, my husband cavorted like John Travolta.

"You're The One That I Want," is now blasting through walls and glass. Fairy lights decorating their Laburnum tree jig in the chill breeze. I want to dash upstairs. Shower. Change into that new dress I bought for the occasion.

'It's only a conservatory not the Eiffel Tower,' I'd argued the night before.

'I don't care about their conservatory,' Edward replied.

'Looks like it to me,' I argued.

'I don't envy them anything,' came the response.

'For goodness sake, Edward!' I lost my cool, banging a spoon on the table top.

Edward, his face red, pointed a finger, shouting, 'Can't you see what that woman's like? Are you blind?'

Startled by his fury, I answered quietly, 'Then tell me?'

For a long moment, he looked about the room, shifting his head like a hunted animal. Then said, 'Trust me.'

Now wet streaks slide down the kitchen window, slanting on an easterly wind. Hurrying upstairs into the bedroom, I cross to the window. Pulling up a chair, I settle down.

Later, lights in the conservatory dim and, scanning the darkness, a movement catches my eye and I notice two figures dance a slow dance behind a wicker screen. Then the dancing stops. Arms enfold. Lips meet. Bodies press together.

Suddenly, the conservatory is awash with bright light and Samantha's husband, Richard, is yanking the screen away, shattering a potted Azalea. The two figures leap apart. Samantha moves towards her husband. He lifts a hand as if to strike. Then dropping it, storms back into the house, leaving his wife sobbing.

Then a quiet voice says behind me, 'She tried it on but I wasn't tempted.' Getting up, I step into my husband's embrace, snuggling my head into his shoulder, breathing in his scent of woodsmoke and aftershave while from next door, music stops. Doors slam. The party has ended.