She was thinking of Devan. She knew she should message him – as she did every day, religiously, while she was away – but he hadn’t responded to her last two and she was reluctant to send another. When she’d first started touring, she’d sent emails – there was no WhatsApp in those days – crammed with photographs of lakes, mountains and ferries, churches, monuments and tulips. Her family had seen it all. So now she just sent short anecdotes: an amusing incident on the train or a thumbnail sketch of a colourful passenger. She wasn’t sure Devan even read them any more, not in his current state, but she persevered nonetheless, not wanting the weeks to go by with them both revolving in a totally separate universe.

In the days before she left this time, her husband had seemed to shut down, maintaining an almost impenetrable silence, greeting her attempts at conversation with an indifferent ‘Mmm,’ or a vague nod, as if she’d interrupted him in the middle of something important. She had tried not to be hurt by it, but in the end had given up and retreated into her own wounded silence.

‘Hope it goes well,’ Devan had said, as they drew up at the station for her to take the train to London, then the tube to St Pancras. He sounded sheepish suddenly, as if he might be ashamed of himself and his behaviour. So Connie had reached over and kissed his cheek. He’d smiled briefly, and she’d seen a flash of sadness in his eyes.

‘Love you,’ she said. He had merely nodded.

Tears sprang to her eyes now, and she was grateful for the sunglasses she wore against the glare off the lake. Does he still love me? It was something she had never, until this moment, questioned. But now it occurred to her – shockingly – that his low mood, the way he was distancing himself from her, might not just be a retirement issue. It might be related to her, to them. Is it me who’s the problem? Is he unhappy because of our marriage? It was a very painful thought.

She shook herself, then turned to catch the waiter’s attention and ordered a double espresso. The swim had been gorgeous, the pool empty except for one ageing American lady in a white swimming hat and goggles, doing steady breaststroke lengths despite the water being numbingly cold. Connie hadn’t lingered afterwards on a poolside lounger, the early May sun not warm enough for that. She’d just wrapped herself in the ample white towelling robe provided in her room and hurried upstairs for a divine shower.