Over dinner, Hilary is mostly silent. The headache she had faked has sprung to life, as if she had tempted it into existence. The heat has killed her appetite, and she is aware of how quickly she is getting through the wine. Greg talks while they eat, filling her in on his observations. ‘The flat hadn’t changed much. Still the same old magnolia walls, the same little kitchen with the peeling linoleum. But it felt different.’ He spears a potato and pokes it into his mouth, his eyes on his plate the whole time he speaks.

‘How so?’

‘I don’t know. The passage of time, I expect. And it’s clear no one’s been living there for ages. You’d think he’d have given it a lick of paint or something, cheered the place up a bit for them. You should have come in. You’d have been interested to see the place now.’

‘I had a headache, remember?’ She glances up at Greg then, checking to see if he’ll remark on the slight tremor in her voice.

But he just forks spinach into his mouth, keeping his eyes on the food in front of him as he goes on: ‘I think Jake is a friend of Mark’s. You know – the son. Thought I saw him around a bit lately. That’s how they got the flat. Still, I’m sure they’ll spruce it up themselves, make it nice with all their own things. Looks like they had plenty to fill the place with. That piano, for a start. Boxes and boxes of stuff lying around the place. Even a kid’s trampoline.’

On and on he continues with his monologue until finally his cutlery clatters on his emptied plate, the sound reverberating painfully in her head. It is only then that he looks across at her almost untouched dinner and says: ‘Are you not eating?’

She considers her response; feels herself drawing a breath. Tentatively, she broaches the subject, the real heart of her discomfort: ‘You don’t think we should tell them, do you?’

His gaze sharpens.

‘About what happened in that house?’ she continues. ‘About Charlotte?’

Her name hangs between them. The silence surrounding it seems to tighten. She sees her husband’s eyes flicker over her face, a look that bristles with unspoken questions. Such an eloquent look – twenty-five years of marriage distilled and poured into that one expression.

‘No,’ he answers, getting to his feet.

‘But they’re bound to find out eventually.’

‘Just leave it, Hil.’ He speaks softly but she hears the warning there all the same.

Unhurriedly, he opens the dishwasher and puts in his plate. He flips its door closed, then pauses to pick up his book – the new one that has just been launched – from the countertop. Hilary watches while he scans the dust-jacket, then clutches it to his chest with one hand, the other slipping casually into his pocket.