‘None at all. We don’t even …’ She had the grace to look at the floral carpet at her feet when she came up with the body blow. ‘We don’t even like each other any more. Do we? I mean, honestly?’

‘Honestly. No. Really, I suppose.’

‘Amazed that you took notice. Stuck up there all day with the sodding typewriter, trolling off to your ruddy book-signings, taking that poncey agent of yours out to lunch. At the Caprice, if you please!’

‘What’s wrong with the Caprice?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. You’ve only taken me there a couple of times in all our married bliss, that’s all that’s wrong.’

‘You said that it was too smart, your dress was wrong, and that the food was too rich.’

‘Liar! Liar! Liar! I never did. You invent all this guff, the privilege of the novelist, I suppose. Over-active imagination. Lies, all of it, lies.’

‘You’ve had half the vodka.’

‘And I’ll have the other half, sod it.’

And so it went on. Until last night when we really got down to – cliché – brass tacks: reasonably, sensibly, kindness and understanding smothering my dislike. I refused to lose my temper, took all the blame willingly, admitted wrongs which were not of my doing, offered her a reasonable settlement for herself and the kids for the severance which we both, by this time, desperately desired. When love dies the ashes are cold indeed. Dust. They stick in your craw, like charcoal.

Upstairs, I heard her talking to Annie, the ‘understanding mummy’ bit she did so well; when she felt like it.

‘And we’ll have super Hymettus honey with the cornflakes, shall we? It’s the stuff I brought back from Greece, remember? When you stayed with Gran in the country last year. Yes, there’s enough … No. Not for Giles … Giles has a beastly tum-tum … and two rashers and a poached egg? Or scrambled? Poached … okay, and hurry, don’t leave the soap in the water, and come down as soon as maybe … I’m going to start the eggs. Right? Mummy’s lovie.’

All this shouted in a kind voice on the landing. A reminder to me? A warning to Annie.

I picked up the scuffed Jiffy bag. French stamps, of ‘No Value’, postmark hard to read, Bargemon-sur-Somewhere, Var. Nowhere I knew, nowhere I had heard of. Pulled off the little yellow plastic sealer and emptied the packet on to the table.

A metal key, five inches long, ancient, not rusty, polished with years of use; wired to the loop at the top, a note.

A page torn from an exercise book, judging by the squares marked on the paper, handwriting rather sprawled, but clear, and disquieting. There was no date.

Mas du Pigeonnier
Bargemon-sur-Yves
Var, France
? Sunday night

Dear William,

A key, you will undoubtedly say. From whence, from whom? From little brother James is from whom.