About a year ago, in a moment of madness, when Michael was away in Edinburgh reviewing a play, I’d contacted a divorce lawyer. Foolish, in retrospect, because ultimately I knew I’d be unable to go through with it, but I’d been desperate at the time. Melissa had found her for me, and I’d asked if we could just speak on the phone, or face-to-face, never write anything down. No emails. She hadn’t batted an eyelid, perhaps used to such a request. I’d called her from my bedroom. Imo was across from New York and, since Michael was away, was staying the night. She was working in the study. She knew nothing; I didn’t want her involved. Amanda had popped by that morning, unexpectedly, as was her wont. Imo let her in, had come up to tell me, then went back and told Amanda I was on the phone and I’d be down in five minutes. She made her aunt a cup of coffee and went back to work. When I came off the phone, having arranged to go and see the lawyer, I opened the bedroom door to find Amanda coming out of the bathroom opposite. Her eyes were glittery and bright, as they had been just now in the restaurant. She said Imo had said to use the loo up here, that it was nicer. She was all smiles. I’d said yes, of course. My voice had been low on the phone, and I’d been sitting on the opposite side of the bed, facing the street. I was sure she couldn’t have heard. But she’d been unusually sweet as we’d drunk our coffee in the kitchen, admiring the garden.