Ten months remain on the lease of the last remaining property, an apartment in Camps Bay, so selling it or moving into it aren’t options right now, and though I have plenty of acquaintances, I don’t have the kinds of friends who’d take me in, nor the kind who I’d want to see me tossed to the curb like this.

I’ve been hoping for a sign, something to point me in the right direction, but the universe is mute at the moment; it’s probably as dumbfounded by my predicament as I am.

“Look,” Vince continues, “why don’t you stay until you can find something more permanent? I’ll move into one of the guest bedrooms until then, make myself scarce.”

That’s just the thing. I don’t want him to make himself scarce. I couldn’t bear living in the same house, knowing he’s in another bedroom because he won’t share ours.

“No, but thank you. I’ve made plans.” I don’t look at him while I’m saying it. I concentrate on folding up a few blouses and my silk kimono to stop myself from throwing myself into his arms and begging him to reconsider. Well, that, and beating the shit out of him for abandoning me like this.

He comes to sit on the bed, and the suitcase dips along with the weight of him. I turn and head back to my dressing room just to put some distance between us.

Vince’s voice is muffled when it comes from behind me and his tone is falsely cheery. “Listen, there’s another option that I’d like you to consider. I spoke to the doctor, the one who treated you at the hospital, and he wanted me to talk to you about checking yourself into a treatment facility.”

“Rehab?” I laugh. “Forget it.” Been there, done that. Didn’t stick. “I don’t need rehab.”

“Not rehab.” Vince clears his throat. “A mental health facility.”

I can’t have heard right. I clutch the negligee I’m folding and march back into the room. “A mental health facility?”

He nods, looking nervous.

“You mean a loony bin? You think I belong in a loony bin?”

“It’s not a loony bin. It’s a facility for people—”

“Who are crazy,” I scoff.

“—who are emotionally fragile and need a bit of time to regroup.” Vince talks over me.

“For God’s sake. I’m not ‘emotionally fragile.’” It would sound more convincing if my voice didn’t crack like I’m about to fall apart.

“You tried to commit suicide, Ruth.”

“No, I didn’t!” I shout, gratified to see him wince. “The whole thing was staged, and yes, it was a stupid thing to do, but someone should fight for this marriage, since you so clearly don’t give a shit about it.”