It's not that Martha Bone doesn't like children. It's more that they don't fit into her world: with its succession of beautiful distressed antiques; her flat, with its creamy sofa, its unwashable linen scatter-cushions, its aura of oatmeal and sand. Her sisters don't understand how she can live her life as she does, but Martha thinks everything looks just fine. But then things start happening. A death. A cat. A box of old letters. The re-emerge of an old boyfriend. Martha begins to investigate her past and discovers you can only paper over the cracks for so long.