Anna put the photo back and looked round at the bed. All the nights there with Richard, his intensity even in sleep. But the more recent memory was of being alone there after the miscarriage, empty and distressed. Richard had no idea of her need for him to be there. She had wanted to keep the news from Kate, until one day, unable to bear the loneliness any longer, she phoned her, and Kate came immediately, full of comfort and understanding.

Their lives had always been dictated by Richard’s timing. ‘I’m-so-busy-so-much-work-this-will-really-make-a-difference.’ Never there when she needed him, in her own crises at work, or when the bleeding began and she had to call an ambulance, or through her mother’s death.

She thought of Douglas, of Kate’s strength in ending her marriage. Turning to the photo again, she stroked dust from the film of plastic covering Richard’s face, as if in order to speak to him. ‘No,’ she said, her voice sounding loud after the hours of silence. ‘No more.’

At eight-thirty the phone rang again. She ambled across to answer it. ‘Look, Anns – sorry. Meeting’s running on a bit. Bit of an emergency. It’ll be another hour, then that’s it – definite. OK?’

‘As you like.’

Upstairs she packed an old suitcase which had been Kate’s. Richard always used a rucksack to go away, suitcases, like carpet, apparently representing something too staid. Folding clothes into the deep expandable case, Anna felt calm, peaceful almost. These few days away from Richard had allowed parts of her, long submerged, to bob to the surface like corks.

She took only what she needed most immediately, nothing like books or cassettes. This could not be finished now. There was the joint ownership of the house to deal with for a start.

She called a taxi to take her to the station. While she was waiting, she went to the kitchen and rummaged round in the store cupboard for a tin of baked beans and left it standing out on the side, the tin-opener resting on top.

Without looking round any further she went outside with her case and sat down beside it in the coppery evening light.

The next morning she went on impulse to a hairdresser’s in Kings Heath and had her hair cut very short. Her head felt strangely light and she could feel the air on her neck. In the mirror her eyes seemed bigger, the cheekbones more prominent. She looked different.

When Richard phoned she didn’t tell him she’d left home for good. After her decisiveness in Coventry she found she couldn’t face talking to him about it, especially not over the telephone. She found herself in a period of limbo, strung between an old life which she had to finish and a new one she barely knew how to begin.

‘The thing is, I’ve got so much to do here,’ she told him. ‘All the house to clear. And there’s lots of the holiday left. I shan’t be around for a while . . .’