‘She was bored, lonely.’

I look away. ‘Not the world’s most flattering picture.’

‘Ah, but I didn’t need to flatter you. You were merely a figment of my imagination.’

‘And now you’re faced with the disappointment of flesh and blood.’

Duval knocks a cigarette out of his pack. ‘All those months I imagined you dissolute, perhaps snobbish, certainly a little spoilt, but at no time did I ever picture you guzzling pork with your fingers at the kitchen table, barefoot, in some torn gypsy dress, with a great big dirty Band-aid on your calf.’

I feel the heat in my cheeks. The dress is dark green, fitted around the bust, with a skirt flared to just below the knee. I could never bear to throw it out because it was my favourite. I always thought the tear wasn’t noticeable.

‘Why did you come back, Alice?’

I push away from the table and gather the plates. I don’t know how to answer him. I’ve not been able to explain it, either to Robert, to my children, or even to myself. God knows, I wish I had something tangible to run away from. An abusive husband, a crime I’d committed or a court order to defy, but there had been nothing like that. How can I explain that I left London because I felt numb, because I couldn’t breathe there any more?

It’s hard to admit you’re not happy. Surrounded by so many ‘good things’ – nice house, healthy children, a decent father for them – it seems almost churlish to be discontented. You’re not supposed to complain so not only are you dissatisfied but you find yourself feeling guilty about being dissatisfied. It’s a bad thing to have feelings you’re not allowed.

‘Perhaps there should be a witness protection programme for people on the run from bad marriages,’ Duval says. ‘Leave your life behind, change your name, slip into anonymity.’

I nod. Anonymity. A clean slate. How tempting. Mrs R. Coleman could once again become Alice Porter, all baggage emptied and gone. I have a sudden flashback to the day I met Robert. He’d been laughing, at the top of the world, literally, 10,000 feet up a mountain in Switzerland, ready to launch himself down a lethal black run. I’d married him for that energy. A sporty daredevil, there was nothing in the world he seemed afraid of, and it took a long time before it occurred to me that this bravery was arrogance and that what I’d taken as intelligence turned out to be an almost biblical conviction about his own ideas. Age lent his boyish enthusiasm a faintly boorish edge and, with it, he became louder, more emphatic. He wanted everything bigger, better, and he became obsessed with getting it.