Tears filled her eyes. ‘Oh, God, yes. I love him so much.’ She blinked. ‘It’s just …’ Seeing Neil’s face, she knew what he was going to say. ‘I know, I know, give it bloody time. I haven’t got any choice, have I? But it’s so hard waiting for that moment when he looks at me again like he always used to – and it’s just him and me … no Jared.’ She was trying to control her wobbling mouth. ‘I just don’t know if that moment will ever come.’

33

The roof terrace was cool in the early-morning sun, which shone from a bright blue cloudless sky. Looking over the parapet, Connie had a breathtaking view across the city, the tower of the beautiful Moorish minaret sticking up above the flat red-brown Marrakech roofs dotted with satellite dishes, the Atlas Mountains on the distant horizon.

Connie and Devan, fresh from a swim in the chilly hotel pool, reclined in their white robes on rough-weave red and orange striped cushions. They sipped golden juice and strong coffee, ate hot fried eggs nestling in spicy tomato sauce, yoghurt and coriander, into which they were dipping chunks of crusty white bread.

‘Heaven,’ Connie pronounced, her mouth full.

She had taken Neil’s advice and gone straight home to speak to Devan. ‘We never got around to organizing that break we talked about last year. I think we need it now. Can you take a week off from the hospice?’ It had opened in early January and Devan clearly loved working there.

He’d said he was sure he could, but had stipulated, ‘Anything but a train tour,’ with a sardonic grin.

And, so far, it had been a success. Neither of them had been to Morocco before. There were no memories, no associations. The hotel was beautiful, their room a vibrant pink and soft green, the bed huge, with capacious pink velvet armchairs to sit in and polished patterned tiles beneath their bare feet. Connie, despite all her travelling, had never stayed anywhere so elegant and luxurious.

In the five days they were there, they made lazy explorations of the medina, the souk, the famous Koutoubia Mosque. By night they ate harira soup, ordered tagines with fluffy couscous in local cafés, or ate on the hotel terrace at small wrought-iron tables. But the greater part of each day they just sat in the sunshine, utterly exhausted by the nightmare of previous months. Their chat was all about the city, the sights, the food, the hotel, the books they were reading, neither of them willing to ruin the time away with more rows and recriminations. It felt like a fragile peace, but peace, nonetheless.