He shrugs. ‘There’s a do on at the clubhouse later.’ He walks to the window. ‘Mike’s late,’ he taps his fingers on the sill. ‘Let me know if they find Sorrel.’

In a minute he’ll leave, then she will. They will never stand together in this house again. She will never lie next to him in bed. For a moment she feels giddy, as if on a cliff top with endless space beyond the edge.

Outside, a horn sounds twice, then a car door shuts, footsteps approach the front door.

‘Goodbye then.’ He disappears swiftly without waiting for a reply; she hears the front door open and Paul greeting Mike, the clatter of golf clubs being pulled from the cupboard, followed by the slamming of doors.

He never usually says goodbye.

She piles jeans and jerseys into a large case. The dressing table is bare as usual apart from a few photos: Paul grinning on their wedding day, absurdly handsome; she looks so young beside him, her smile so uncertain. She leaves that photo on the table and chooses two others: Izzy and Paul on a snowy slope, another of them in the sea. She places them between her clothes. Izzy will want them. She’ll want to spend time with Paul once the divorce comes through. ‘Divorce,’ she whispers to herself, her heart beating fast. She puts Izzy’s clothes into a smaller case, hurrying now, anxious to be off. What if Paul should return for something and catch her packing? She chooses a pot of face cream from her collection, abandoning the tubes of thick foundation. She puts the protesting cat in the carrier, then hesitates, looking round. The house is hard to leave after all. She hasn’t been happy here but it has sheltered her and Izzy. Lina too. She writes another note, scrawling quickly:

Client invited me over to Brittany; Xmas shopping, taking Izzy and Lina. Borrowing car. M.

He will be furious but she won’t be here to suffer that; the lie might buy a little time.