She hurries downstairs and into the kitchen, but there is no sign of Greg. No doubt he’s off licking his wounds somewhere. It’s been three days since his book was published. Three days of gritting her teeth against his anguish and reproach. Her house has fallen silent, the rooms echoing with unspoken disappointments. No reviews, little traction from the press, a handful of mediocre online comments. ‘What does it matter about any of that?’ she’d said to him last night, when he’d appeared in the kitchen, eyes red-rimmed and haunted. It had startled her how wild he’d looked. ‘Let’s throw this party and enjoy ourselves. Who cares what anyone else thinks? Let’s you and I celebrate your achievement with our friends. Surely that can be enough.’

In an hour’s time their guests will start arriving, all gathering to celebrate the publication of a book that has become loaded with anxiety and resentment. Hilary glances around her kitchen: trays of lasagne defrosting on the countertops, hors d’oeuvres ready to be popped into the oven, salad bowls covered with cellophane, silverware individually blanketed in paper napkins, an army of glassware lined up on trays, jugs waiting to be filled, wine bottles as yet still corked.

‘Oh, to hell with it,’ she says to herself, turning on her heel and flouncing from the room.

The dog, roused by her sudden movement, jumps to life and skitters across the kitchen, following her out into the hall with a yipping excitement as she grabs her keys. But she has no intention of taking Mona with her. This is something she must face alone. She locks the door behind her, and marches out on to the street baking in the sun.

The park is jammed with people, summer in full-throated cry. Even with the usual August bank-holiday exodus from the city, still they throng here. Hilary’s insides leap with excitement and alarm as she crosses the street. Going to his house in broad daylight, after months of stealing around in the dark, like a ghost, calls up within her a shiver of nerves at her own brazenness. What if Greg were to return right now and catch her there with Anton? How would that confrontation play out?

She’s at the entrance to Number 14 when she hears her name being called. There’s a blood-rush in her face as she turns and sees her neighbour, Martin Cooper, striding up Wyndham Park, a shopping bag in each hand. ‘Just picking up a few bits and bobs,’ he says cheerily. ‘All set for the party?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Hilary says, grinning like a fool.

‘What time is it?’ Martin asks, checking his watch. ‘You want us there for midday?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Best get my skates on so!’ He smiles at her, then glances sideways at Number 14.