“Yeah.” He smiles. “I remember that night too.” Then, “Hey,” he says, after a moment. “I went to check out a location the other day. It’s an old warehouse. Victorian. Backs onto the Stour. It was a grain store. I think it would be affordable.” She can see the excitement in his eyes. “But let’s make this meal great first and then see what Mark says.”

She can hear him chatting away as she moves next door, telling Tom what he’s doing—so you take your onion, and then you sweat it in the oil—and Tom’s burbling responses.

She turns on the TV again, but it is only the same rolling pictures as earlier, Charles and Camilla. That same protestor, openmouthed. She turns it off and texts Hannah: You still OK for tonight? Part of her, she is aware, a large part of her, would like Hannah to cancel—would like everyone to cancel—but she gets a text back immediately: Can’t wait!

Hannah

SHE DECIDES TO WORK FROM HOME, SO SHE CAN PACK AND GET everything ready in time. “We have to pick up the rental car,” she says to Nathan as he leaves for work. “But if we leave at three or so, we can get to Whitstable and have some time together before we go to Cate’s.”

The weather has eased a little. It is not as cold as it had been. She works all morning, then takes herself for a run along the canal, and showers and dresses in her best underwear and a dress that she knows he loves, knee-length, supple black silk—bought for their anniversary last year. She takes time over her makeup. She has bought a good bottle of champagne, which she packs in her bag, then goes online, looking again at the pictures of the hotel, of the restaurant, of the beach at Whitstable. Perhaps this is the beginning of something new. Perhaps they can move to Kent. Walk under wide skies. Get a dog.

At five she receives a text: Just leaving. Which means they are going to be late. To calm herself, she goes into their bedroom and begins packing a bag for him, but as she does so, she feels a sense of dread—as though their intimacy is suddenly contingent, fraught with a vague peril. She should have gone to get the car herself—she has had the whole afternoon—but the car rental place is close to the road that leads to the A12, which leads to the A2, which leads to the M2, which leads to Kent. So it made sense, in that way at least. She finishes packing and goes to sit on the sofa, so she will be ready as soon as he arrives.

She is still sitting in the same spot when his key turns in the lock at 6:15.

“We’re late,” she says.