Nick had bounded out of bed as soon as the alarm went off, and was now singing Bruce Springsteen tunelessly in the shower: his relentless positivity, as sincere as an American game show host, was really starting to grate. His phone started up, and I let it ring out, but as soon as the message beep had sounded, it began to ring again. On the third cycle, I swung myself out of bed and went to find it. Maybe he really did mean it about this new start: it wasn’t like him to leave it in such easy reach. The number was regional and didn’t come with a name.

‘Nick Appleby’s phone,’ I said tersely.

‘I need to speak to him,’ said an equally abrupt Northern man.

‘He’s not available right now,’ I said, clipped. ‘Who shall I tell him was calling?’

‘You need to go and find him,’ demanded the man. ‘This is urgent.’

‘He’s not available,’ I repeated. ‘I’m his wife. I can give him a message.’

‘He needs to take this call,’ he said. ‘I’m calling from Carter & Lyle solicitors.’

Before I had time to tell him about his lack of manners, Nick emerged from the en-suite, a white towel wrapped around his middle-aged spread.

‘There’s a very rude man on the phone for you,’ I said, holding it out to him, ensuring my voice would carry.

Nick rolled his eyes, part amusement, part irritation. ‘Hello,’ he said.

Then his face turned to stone, and our life turned upside down all over again.

The entire transaction for the Hutton sale, all three million, had disappeared from the client account before it had reached the vendor’s solicitor. Of course we assumed at first it was a mistake, Nick making phone call after phone call, telling people his professional reputation had been stained and angrily demanding answers. All the while, Sophie was calling me. At first I let the calls drop, but then I thought how comforting it would be to hear her voice. My sweet, biddable youngest girl.

‘Darling, we’re having a nightmare,’ I said when I picked it up. ‘That big property sale of Dad’s we’ve been celebrating has had some weird glitch. The money’s gone missing and—’

Sophie cut across me. ‘I need to talk to you, Mum,’ she said. ‘I saw Rachel at the weekend.’

My heart plummeted. She’d invited Rachel – in all her vicious, drunken glory – to her hen night, and left me out in the cold.

‘Oh, did you?’ I said, icy.

‘Yes, and I need to talk to you face to face about what she told me. You’re home, right? I’m driving over now.’