This particular morning, however, she had heard Tom stirring in the bedroom as she placed her bag on the counter and had run out before having to confront him. She had tossed and turned for most of the previous night, her mind bending with possible solutions, and the same thoughts churned over in her mind as she roamed the streets later that day. She could tell him she’d quit, that she had changed her mind and decided to do something else, but unless she had a clear idea of what that might be, he wouldn’t buy it, surely, however naturally unprobing he might be; besides, even if she did decide to retrain or apply for another role, that would involve going to the FCO for a reference. HR was hardly likely to offer her one when, as far as they were concerned, she had simply buggered off without working out her notice period. She would rely on the support of Emsworth in any such application, but how could she go begging to the man who had threatened to have her family slaughtered, the man who had ruined her life? Besides, he would never help. This was personal, for him. She had humiliated him and he wanted her to pay.

The other option, she conceded, was to claim she’d decided she didn’t want to work anymore, that she wanted to be a stay-at-home mum. But she would go mad, she was sure of it, if she had to take on the duties of primary carer. Besides, could she convincingly persuade Tom of such a change of heart, particularly as Callum was about to start school? What little faith she had then in her own powers of deception.

The only remaining choice was to say she had been sacked, in order to get Tom on side. But sacked for what? What could she have done that would get her kicked out so spectacularly, and without any warning? That brought her back to the only possible explanation: the truth. And the truth just wasn’t an option.

By the time lunchtime arrived she was famished. When she pulled herself out of the thoughts looping in her brain and realised where she was, she felt a tingle of excitement.

The bell tinkled above the door as she stepped down into the bistro, the familiar counter on the left, tended to by the same chef she’d seen on numerous trips here with Emsworth. There was something so gratifying about being here in his favourite spot, reclaiming a snippet of her old life, walking the line of danger, knowing that he could walk in at any moment and could do nothing about her being here – it involved just the right amount of risk, not enough to warrant any kind of revenge, after all her mere presence was no real provocation after all, but just enough to make her feel alive.