She jogs towards her husband, her feet and calves caked in mud, her damp hair clinging to her scalp and her cheeks flushed pink, but Tom is oblivious. He’s scratching the nose of a chestnut mare, murmuring something Kate can’t hear. She steps closer, certain he must be able to hear her laboured breathing but his attention remains fixed on the horse. His attention is always elsewhere: TV, newspapers, his phone. He’ll look at her if she’s talking to him but he no longer glances over at her to see what she’s doing or to check if she’s okay. He used to look at her lustfully, his eyes bright, a playful smile on his lips, but she can’t remember the last time he touched her, other than brushing past her in the cramped London flat. They haven’t had sex since the week he left prison and even then he looked through her, imagining someone else.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she says.

Tom turns slowly, reluctant to abandon the mare. ‘And now you’ve found me.’

He looks tired and drawn, his straggly shoulder length hair tucked behind his ears, the prison beard that she begged him to shave off wiry and unkempt.

‘We’ve got less than two hours until our guests arrive.’ She touches the damp sleeve of her coat that covers her watch. ‘I thought you might want to … freshen up and get ready.’

‘Get ready for what?’

‘For the course.’ She’s not sure if he’s being deliberately obtuse because he knows it winds her up but she’s not going to rise to it.

‘I’m not running the course.’

‘Don’t. Just … don’t. I’m this far from breaking point and if you think—’

‘I’m not running the course.’

‘Of course you are. People are on their way here; they’ve paid!’

‘Then text them, refund them, do whatever you have to do.’

He’s deadly serious. There’s not the hint of a smile on his face and no light in his eyes.

‘I … Tom you can’t do this. I’ve paid thousands to rent this place for the week, hundreds and hundreds on Facebook and Instagram adverts. I’ve literally … I’ve drained our bank account. There’s nothing left. If we have to pay people back we’re not even going to be able to pay the rent on the flat.’

‘Where’s it gone?’

‘Where’s what gone?’

‘The money. We had over a hundred thousand pounds in savings when I went to prison.’

Kate searches his eyes. Is he … is he accusing her of something? Of squandering it? Of living the high life while he was inside?