She slid the phone through the bannisters, placing it on the tread by his feet, hearing him speak unnecessarily brightly into the receiver as she walked into the kitchen.

‘You all right?’ he asked a couple of minutes later as he followed her into the room. She was standing by the window looking out at the darkness.

Slowly, she turned to him, her face devoid of expression. ‘Why? Shouldn’t I be?’

‘What the hell, Gabriela? If something’s the matter, spit it out, please.’

‘Nothing is the matter, Tom, I’m just curious as to why Millie’s mum is calling you again …’

‘I’m sorry, what? Gabriela, how else exactly do you imagine I might arrange a date for Sadie, when she doesn’t have a phone? Perhaps Millie’s mother and I should communicate via pigeon carrier? Or maybe some form of Morse code would suit you?’

‘Oh, fuck off, Tom, you know what I’m saying …’

‘Do I? Do I know? Because, you know, it seems to me like you’re always banging on about your mental load, and yet when I make an effort to offload it …’

‘Oh, what are you even talking about, Tom? Can you hear yourself?’

He continued, unhindered. ‘When I go about doing the countless things that I do every day, that go unseen by you, you freak out. It seems to me that I can do no right by you. You know what? It’s almost as if you want me to fail.’

His words hung there, and there was nothing she could say to offset them. Because maybe she did want him to fail, maybe it was simply easier that way, to justify the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone, the things she already knew she was going to do. Maybe she wanted it to be him, not her, who made the first move to leave.

At a loss as to what to say, she marched past him, slamming the door on her way upstairs.

She didn’t bother to be discreet as she slumped on the bed, her body vibrating with the thought of Tom and that woman, pulling out her phone and holding it, and feeling – what?

She didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she typed.

So, next weekend: where are we going?

Chapter 33

Isobel

In the end, I don’t bother waiting for Si to come back with a number. A quick Google search reveals that Professor Austin Mansfield is still a visiting lecturer at UCL, where he was Si’s tutor. The email I send him from my work address is not so much misleading as elusive in terms of the nature of my enquiry, whilst massaging his ego in just the right way. His reply is almost instant.

I’m terribly busy, but I could manage twenty minutes tomorrow morning if you could come to me …