Annie woke the next morning with a hangover, yet she felt lighter than she had for several days.

She peeled off her pajamas and stuffed them into the wastepaper basket. She brushed her teeth—twice—then climbed into the shower and let the hot water wash away the despondency of the last couple of weeks. She imagined the gloom clinging to her skin like a rind cracking under the shower pressure and peeling off in sheets, slipping down her body before gravity pulled it down the drain and away.

In the midst of all the uncertainties she now faced, there was one thing of which Annie was certain: She wasn’t ready to let the credits roll on her story yet. She was only forty-four, goddammit! She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she dressed. Certainly, her bottom was rounder than it used to be. And her boobs were more pendulous than pert but, all in all, she wasn’t in bad shape. The extra weight helped to plump out wrinkles that might have otherwise appeared on her face, and with a little help from Warm Russet hair dye, she could easily pass for forty; well, maybe forty-two. Her large, round eyes were the color of warm honey; Peter said she reminded him of one of the rabbits from Watership Down. She had a pert nose, a heart-shaped face, and high cheekbones, and her thick, wavy hair hung in soft layers around her face. Annie smiled at her reflection as she pulled on fresh jeans and a jumper that still smelled of fabric softener. Today is not a day to mope, she said to herself. Today is to find somewhere to live.

—

She left the hotel at lunchtime with four appointments to see flats. As she passed the reception desk, a voice called out:

“Mrs. Sharpe! There’s a delivery for you.”

Annie wondered if this might be Sally—bestower of sympathetic wine and chocolate—but the badge on her lapel indicated that this was Beth.

Beth smiled as she produced a huge bouquet of flowers from beneath the desk. Annie smiled back graciously and thanked her. She didn’t need to look at the card to know who they were from; they reeked of a Max Sharpe charm offensive.

This was how it would start: the wooing. No one did remorse like Max. He could be so utterly woe-filled that anyone would think it was he who had found his spouse bonking the accountant, jeweler, or, in this case, waitress, and not the other way around. He would make grand gestures and even grander promises. Alongside these, he would attack her sensibilities: What about the children? The restaurant? The house? He’d kill himself; is that what she wanted?