But it wasn’t enough, and when Evelyn at work suggested he should try something creative to draw him out of his mood, Hilary had gone out and signed him up for an evening course at the Irish Writers’ Centre. An outlet to release his pent-up frustrations – that was all she’d intended it to be. Something to get him over the hump of his depression until they could return to the normality of their ordinary lives. It had never been part of the plan for him to write a novel and for it to be published. That was a boon, she’d told him – a serendipitous side-effect. What Hilary hadn’t anticipated was how writing would, in itself, become a source of anxiety for Greg. He worried when the book met a tepid reception. He fretted over the modest sales. Entering a bookshop, once a source of such pleasure to him, now involved an agonized, and frequently disappointing, search for the presence of his own work. He dreaded people asking him about the next.

Greg hadn’t wanted to come to the launch this evening, but Hilary had coerced him. And now she feels a dash of fierce regret, watching her husband as he stands on the outer rim of the throng encircling the celebrated author, the latest sure-fire bestseller pressed to Greg’s chest as he waits to get close enough for a signature. There is something so craven about him. The man is hopeless. He will always be hopeless. Hilary’s anger flares in her chest.

What is wrong with me? she wonders, as she knocks back the rest of her wine. Her husband is a good man – loyal, kind, faithful. And yet the anger seeps through her brain, like some bitter herb infusing her thoughts with vitriol. But of course she knows what’s wrong with her. She has enough self-awareness to realize that the news of Anton’s return is at the root of her turmoil. Depositing her empty glass on a stack of books piled high on a table, she pushes through the crowd, recalling another time, another party. Another summer evening, the sway of her hips, and the cruelty of Charlotte Woodbury’s amused smile looking her up and down, saying, ‘My God, Hilary, whatever are you wearing?’

‘Everything all right?’ Greg asks, as she takes hold of his elbow.

‘Can we go home?’

His eyes flicker over her, confused. He’s usually the one nagging her to leave.

‘A sudden headache,’ she explains.

He doesn’t question her further, merely pats her hand and follows her out of the shop.