She spun around. The dimly lit room was empty and silent, but Jared seemed suddenly to be everywhere. Was she going mad? But she could almost smell him. She dropped the tray onto the table, where the contents spilled onto the wooden surface. The hand she clasped to her mouth was cold and shaking. No, she thought, no, no, no.

Connie took a couple of deep breaths, steadying herself against the worktop. Pumpkin’s trendy, probably half of Hampstead’s eating the same ravioli over Christmas. Did she honestly think that Jared would be so devious as to follow her into the deli and lurk about until he got the opportunity to drop the packet into her shopping bag without her noticing? I’m being stupid. But her reasoning did nothing to soothe her nerves. She continued to tremble as she twisted open the wine – not even chilled yet – and poured herself a large glass, pulling the heavy curtains against the night, turning on the television to some shouty gameshow just to banish the creeping silence.

You’ve got to stop this, she pleaded with herself. She hated how vulnerable, how paranoid she’d become. It was like living with a chronic virus. Outwardly she functioned, just about. But inwardly she was now perpetually weak and afraid.

The absurd thing was, she couldn’t easily define what was frightening her. It wasn’t physical: Jared had never hurt her, and he’d never given the slightest sign of wanting to, of being in any way violent. He wasn’t doing traditional scary stalker stuff – wasn’t doing anything at all, in fact. She hadn’t heard a peep out of him or set eyes on him in weeks. She downed the glass of Chablis too quickly, barely registering its deliciousness. The truth was all too clear. She didn’t blame Jared for the breakdown of her marriage. That was on her. He had, nonetheless, become a bogeyman, haunting her every step, her every breath. He didn’t even have to put in an appearance for this to be true.

Connie watched the show on television without seeing it. She was aware of her cheeks warm from the wine, her head slightly woozy, but she refilled her glass anyway, and contemplated preparing some of the food she’d bought. The ravioli, still scattering the table, mocked her. She should bin them, but that would be admitting she believed Jared had had a hand in their presence in her shopping bag, and she refused to do that. There was no chance, however, that she would ever be able to eat them and nothing else she’d bought for herself appealed.