McKinley watched the clock and gathered statements, Ian came and went, and Joan stared down the date of her first court appearance as if it was birth – unstoppable, inexorable, something she had no choice but to get through.

It came at last, and she wore blue. A dark belted dress, a fur wrap, a hat that sat low on her eyes, chosen by Pat who strode, chin up, beside her. On the pavement outside the chancery division of the High Court, a few members of the press were gathered; flash bulbs went off as Pat and Joan hurried in.

McKinley greeted them in the hall. “We’re first up.”

The narrow glass doors to Court 14 were open, and McKinley stood aside to let Joan pass before him. She squeezed along a bench in the high-walled coffin of books and robes. Green velvet curtains hung over the entire wall behind the perch where the judge would sit.

“We’ve got Merrivale,” said McKinley quietly.

“Is he good?” said Pat.

“Very hot on tradition,” said McKinley.

Joan didn’t know if that was good or bad. She couldn’t speak. She leant forward and looked along the row of knees to Enid, half-obscured by the belly of her counsel.

Two years had told Joan nothing new about her. Ian still arrived nervous and thin, and still left miserable. She’d won him for a stay in Scotland so that he could see his grandmother, but Sybil, dampened by rain and the ruin of her family, had been ill. She’d spent most of his visit cocooned in her bed, wrapped to the eyeballs in eiderdown.

The curtains shifted, a gap opened up, and from a small hidden door came the judge. Everybody got to their feet. Lord Merrivale climbed to his perch and settled, his robes flapping and his eyes old and narrow above beaked nose and ermine collar.

Douglas was first to the stand. His shoes squeaked across the parquet floor.

Their barrister was called Smithson. McKinley had recommended him. Joan thought he looked like a child, not old enough to carry the weight of her future anywhere. He smiled at Douglas, and they got through the preliminaries while Joan unwrapped a boiled sweet. She wished she could have some water. They’d got drunk last night, in horrid anticipation, and she hadn’t been able to stomach more than a coffee for breakfast. Now she felt sick. Her mouth was dry, her belly wailed for food.

Douglas rested his hands on the sill of the witness box as if he was on the deck of a ship looking out to sea, the waters decidedly choppy.

Smithson said, “In your affidavit, you state that, during your marriage, your wife was reluctant to fulfil her duties. Could you expand on this?”