He hadn’t meant it. This was the conclusion Abi had reached. She would allow him a moment of weakness like that, particularly in light of all that had happened afterwards. But every so often, when she was tired, overwrought from work and the new responsibilities she had taken on, her thoughts would again creep in that direction, and she would find herself wondering: what if he had meant it? She didn’t want them to be one of those couples who stayed together for the sake of the children, the marriage a sham. She wanted more than a loveless union. Whenever these thoughts came to her, she grew watchful, alert to some clue as to the authenticity of her husband’s affection, but it was exhausting and unnatural, like being a spy in her own marriage. So, for the most part, Abi followed her usual approach in dealing with the bigger emotional issues: she ignored it, hoping it would go away.

Occasionally, Abi’s guilt prompted her to ring Valentina, and she would listen with concern as the woman held forth on the strangeness of her life with Guy suddenly gone. Val, in those conversations, sounded bewildered but also distant, as if she were observing her own life, her own grief, from a remove. A reversal seemed to have taken place in the time since the death – Valentina’s storm of grief had abated, while Corinne’s shock had worn off leaving her distressed, pitiable in her new sadness. Abi learned this from Val herself, for in the days and weeks after their return, Corinne’s silence had become notable. The calls from France dried up overnight, and whether or not she was still communicating with Beth via Instagram or WhatsApp seemed doubtful. Both Abi and Mark observed an increasing desperation in their younger daughter as she struggled to reach her friend, growing more frantic as the silence stretched on.

‘I’m not sure about this, Beth,’ Abi gently remarked on one occasion.

She had happened upon her younger daughter slumped over her desk, her whole body wracked with emotion. Beth’s hair had grown a little, but it was still a cropped boyish cut and above the collar of her shirt, Abi could just make out the head of the black rose snaking up her spine. Every time she saw the thing, it caused a tremor of revulsion. The row that had followed their discovery of it had been awful. Even now, an echo of that shaking rage came back to her, remarks bubbling up inside: My God, what were you thinking? Look at that dreadful thing! Your beautiful back, destroyed. But she said nothing. ‘What’s the point?’ Mark had counselled her. ‘It’s not like she can rub it out.’ They had let it go, and Abi, while not making her peace with the tattoo, at least avoided commenting on it.