That evening, having watched three television programs without taking in a word, Tilly went to her room, closing the door firmly on her companions. Luke’s door was open and a glance as she passed by had shown him back from his hike with the tourists and scribbling busily away – a letter to Jane, she surmised. Sophie was in the office and Matt had the ever-present chessboard out at the table, but if he was hoping for a partner she had made plain her disinclination to join him.

Alone at last, she could let her thoughts turn to Gerry. She had said ‘he’s still my husband’ as a reason for not dobbing him in to the police – did that make her an accessory to whatever crime he was wanted for? She tried to imagine what he might have done. Surely nothing very dreadful, and yet, the voice of reason asked, wouldn’t it have to be bad if his only recourse was to fake his own death? A state that could have nothing to do with Gerry, who was so full of life with his charming smile and full-throated laugh. An ache of sadness rose in her throat at the thought of all that he had tossed away. She had been proud to partner him, proud of his looks and virility, scarcely able to believe that, considering all the women he could have had, he had instead fallen for her.

Tilly thumbed through memories like old photos: Gerry, suited and handsome on their wedding day. His dishevelled panic in the delivery room when Francie was born. ‘I can’t do this, babe, I can’t!’ he’d blurted, heading for the door. Until all five feet of a tiny nurse had got in his face yelling, ‘You get back there and hold her hand, buster. It’s your baby too!’ They had laughed about it afterwards. She saw him, proud as punch with a watermelon grin on his face, as he’d swept open the door of their new home. ‘All yours, babe. Paradise with mod cons.’ She remembered asking then if they could afford it and the careless way he’d laughed as if money was no object. ‘You let me worry about the dough, babe.’