Anton’s words coming at her again with violence, bringing with them a wash of nausea and shame. She limps across to the toilet, flips open the lid and leans over the bowl, waiting for the retching to start, but nothing comes. Her insides are in turmoil, her thoughts tumbling over each other, like clothes in a washing-machine, the dizzying swirl of accusations and misunderstandings, his account against hers in violent opposition.

A distraction, he’d said. Easy pickings, he’d called her. She slumps to the floor, thinking of the long ribbon of her correspondence stretching back over all those years, the charting of her eternal hope, her blind faithfulness, her unquestioning devotion. She had gone to him full of love and he had responded with bitterness and cruelty. She still recalls the way his lip curled in disgust as he pushed her away – abhorrence washed all over his face.

From downstairs come sounds of the front door opening, voices in the hall, among them Greg’s raised in greeting. She listens to the flow of people passing through into the kitchen, more arriving, and somehow drags herself to her feet, her responsibilities tightening around her neck, like a noose.

In the bathroom mirror, she stares aghast at her reflection. Her cheeks appear scalded, as if boiling water has been flung into her face. Her eyes have shrunk back into their sockets, the skin around them loose and bruised-looking. Quickly now, she applies make-up, dabs at her face with brushes, paints colour on to her chapped lips, draws a comb through her hair. She sprays her underarms with perfume – Chanel No 5 – then straightens her dress, gives herself a little shake.

I can do this, she thinks, as she descends the stairs, her heart like lead in her chest. She has always prided herself on her ability to cope, but with each step she feels her confidence crumbling, the prospect of having to play the smiling hostess for hours to come making her weak with exhaustion.

The guests have congregated in the garden where Greg has erected the canopy. In the kitchen, she sees he has already put the food to warm in the oven, and she sets about laying out the salads, needing to focus on a task. Activity will pull her through. Straight away she is swept into the storm of talk, greeting friends, receiving kisses on the cheek, hearing her voice telling people how delighted they are about the book and how proud she is of Greg, repeating these things ad nauseam until the phrases feel worn thin.