‘I’m not a nice drunk, Pax,’ he repeated. ‘I’m selfish and I’m greedy and I’m horny. Please don’t trust me.’

Touching her face with his hand in apology, he turned and walked away.

Cheek on fire, Pax stared into the darkness after him, wondering why she suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Her own phone lit up with a call, vibrating furiously in her hand. Helen. She had to move to the far wall to be sure of enough reception to take it.

‘Sorry – been with a client. It is your week for Wednesday nights, I’ve checked,’ Helen’s warm, firm voice insisted. ‘You absolutely don’t have to let Kes go with them. They’re bullying you. I’ll take this up.’

‘Thanks,’ she said quietly, ringing off and closing her eyes, allowing herself one silent sob, violent as a mule kick, shame burning. I want to go, Mummy. She’d got it wrong. She always got it wrong. She was too weak, too passive, too fair. Kes came first, above everything, always, and yet she’d politely let him go.

The revellers were moving back towards the other end of the orchard, singing another wassail song, Love and joy come to you repeating every few lines.

She didn’t want to rejoin the others. She wanted to go home just as Kes had.

Pax was fed up with being polite. She’d been a polite daughter, polite lover, polite wife and mother, polite drunk. Her good manners were the reason her son was with the Forsyths again tonight. The same well-bred silence that surrounded other family secrets would keep the contents of the letters safe too. It meant graciously acknowledging that she was still too much of a displaced wife to step away from its shadow without a customary period of mourning: three weeks ago, she’d been renewing the family’s Amazon Prime subscription and planning their summer holiday in Crete; everything was still in joint names, Mack hadn’t a clue how to sort the recycling and most of their friends didn’t even know they’d separated yet. Wasn’t it just common courtesy to continue ignoring the worst-timed bit of human chemistry fate had ever offered her? Being polite meant pretending Luca’s words didn’t make a difference, that his compassion wasn’t one part comfort to two parts bad-timing.

The last thing Pax needed right now was mutual attraction. A fortnight was an intake of breath compared to a marriage.

She held her hands to her cheek where he’d touched it. She’d dropped her gloves somewhere trying to call Helen. Her fingers were cold, the loose rings rattling. She carefully pulled them off and slotted them onto her middle finger where they now fitted perfectly. It seemed apt; she was giving her marriage the finger after all. She gestured in the dark, not at all politely, and felt better. Strength and honour.

Thinking about it, Pax hadn’t been very polite to Luca at all when they’d met, which was at least something. He’d arrived with a crush on her mother, hardwired kindness, suicidal driving and a puritanical streak. She’d seen no evidence to suggest he’d changed. Apart from those looks, that feeling, the deep feral pulse which beat louder. What was it Bridge had said? He fancies the arse off you. Mesmazur would have no qualms about leaving now without saying goodbye to anyone so that she could go home, slam the door and enjoy very rude thoughts in private.