Not that Connie needed validation for what she did. It was her dream job, always had been. She’d previously worked – not as happily – for a self-styled lifestyle guru with an emporium in Bridgwater. Fiona Raven was a chef, designer and broadcaster, who wrote cookery and party books, and produced her own range of gourmet foods, such as jars of cooking sauces, fruit compôtes and nut butters. Connie was her Girl – then Woman – Friday, a difficult job she knew she did well, but for which she got scant credit from Fiona. So as soon as Caitlin had left home – twelve years ago now – Connie had applied for a manager’s job with a railway-tours company and never looked back. Having found, so much later in life, the job she loved, she had no desire to give it all up just yet.

Now Devan reached out for her across the table. ‘I didn’t mean silly, you know I didn’t. I’m sorry.’ He looked so weary, suddenly, that she thought he might fall asleep where he sat. ‘I think your job is great, and I know you love it. But what about us, Connie? I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that we’re not getting any younger.’

‘Oh, please.’ She pulled her hand from his and stood up. How did the conversation twist away from yesterday’s horrendous binge, so that now it appears to be all my fault?

Shaking her head in frustration, she moved round the table, wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders, kissed his bent head and tried another tack. ‘I’m worried about you, Devan,’ she said softly. ‘This drinking thing, it isn’t you.’

For a moment he let her comfort him. But then he nudged her arms off and straightened, heaving himself to his feet. He looked wrecked, his tone bleak. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’

Connie took in a big breath to give it a final go. ‘You don’t think you should at least talk to one of the new doctors?’

The stare he gave her was withering. ‘About what?’

She didn’t dare mention depression again, as she had so many times. But this time she didn’t need to.

‘I’m sick to death of you and Caty implying I’m depressed,’ he said wearily. ‘Depression is an illness, Connie, like lung cancer or diabetes. Its symptoms are well categorized.’ He raised his hand and began ticking off on his fingers. ‘I don’t feel hopeless about the future. I’m not tearful. I’m not anxious. I still take real pleasure in lots of things – like a good glass of wine or a rugby match.’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘I’m not depressed.’

She didn’t speak, noting there was no mention of herself in his current list of pleasures.