But in a way, he likes it. He nurses the ball of misery in his body like a lurking teratoma, reluctant to get it removed. It’s a part of him now, fully formed. Something, he knows, that’s staying for good.

7

Somehow, Freya gets through the day. Butler stays busy, barking instructions at her every now and again. Normally a brusque style like her sergeant’s would get to her, but today his lack of care is welcomed. Any proper attention he put her way and she’d crumple – game over.

Once she gets home, she sheds her clothes quickly, as if trying to discard the day, pulling a T-shirt over her head. She shuts the curtains, climbs into bed. She feels tired, so very tired, but her body can’t relax, like it knows something is missing. That he is missing.

She gets up, walks quickly down the stairs in the cold to the kitchen. She plucks a bottle of wine from the fridge, not caring which one, quickly opens the screw top and grabs a wine glass from the cupboard. She carries it back to her bed, then pours a full glass, taking frantic gulp after gulp, not even tasting it.

She remembers that last time she saw him, in this very bed. Her mind tries to recall everything they spoke about, every word, every nuance, hoping to remember something that will make what happened make sense. But it doesn’t.

He said he was going to leave his wife. But clearly he’d made no move towards that – Amy Miller knew nothing. Jon said he loved Freya, but he’d died trying something he’d never even come close to hinting he enjoyed.

Freya finishes the glass, pours another. She remembers when they first met. Summer, over a year ago. A mutual friend’s barbecue. He was there alone, so was she, and they started talking, instantly hitting it off. She liked the way he laughed: soft, self-deprecating. His complete lack of arrogance was refreshing, and she was gutted when she realised he was married, with the ring to prove it. Yet, there he was a week later, bumping into her in Waitrose.

‘It must be fate,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

Yes, she did. And she fancied him. And apart from that first offer, she was the one to pursue their relationship. He backed away, more times than she could count. I can’t, we can’t, my wife… Even before anything had happened.

Then, one day, it did.

They met up to go for a walk. Still pretending things were innocent. Cold winter air, a deserted forest, a gravel track meandering through. We’re just mates, she’d say to her friends. Until his face was close, his hand holding hers as he helped her over a stile, and she leaned forward for that final few inches and kissed him.