‘Where are you going?’ she asked, suddenly fearful that he might be intending to confront Jared. Her husband was not a violent man. As far as she knew, he had never raised a fist to anyone. But these were exceptional circumstances: he might do something he’d later regret.

Devan didn’t reply, just bent to tie the laces on his trainers.

‘Devan?’

‘I don’t know where I’m going,’ he said, his voice hoarse and breaking. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing any more.’

She raced to block his path to the door, putting her hands on his chest. ‘Please, don’t go. We have to talk, sort something out.’

‘Worried I might be going to beat up your creepy toy-boy?’ His eyes were contemptuous as he pushed her aside and was gone.

25

It was the longest night of Connie’s life. Devan had taken the car, but she had no idea where he’d gone. She sat in the kitchen, nursing a mug of tea, wrapped in a thick cardigan and a scarf, but still numb with cold. She was desperate to talk to someone – Neil? Lynne? – and let out the misery that was choking her. But it was two in the morning. She cried softly to herself, on and on until there were no more tears, and then she finally dragged herself up to bed. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep, and she did not.

Around six thirty, she heard the purr of the kettle, the clink of china, the slam of a cupboard door. She struggled from her bed, aching in every limb, and went downstairs, her heart pitching raggedly in her chest. Devan was sitting at the kitchen table, fingers looped through the handle of his coffee mug, staring vacantly into space. His face was gaunt and pale, dark smudges beneath his eyes. Riley rested his tan muzzle on his thigh, as if sensing his distress, Devan’s free hand absentmindedly stroking his wiry coat. Both looked up as Connie came into the room. Riley wagged his tail but did not leave Devan’s side. Her husband’s stare barely changed.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked, not knowing what else to say to break the heavy silence.

‘Nowhere.’

She went over to the cupboard and took out a mug for herself, poured coffee from the cafetière on the table. Then she sat down opposite him. She longed to reach out, to touch his hand, but she didn’t dare. It was still dark outside, only the first faint glimmer of dawn in the sky. The kitchen felt close, the air stagnant. Connie wanted to open a window, but she didn’t move.

His eyes were on her. ‘Tell me about the sex,’ he said, a brittle edge to his voice.

‘Devan …’