‘You aren’t,’ she said, but felt tears behind her eyes. ‘Would I even know, if he was having a thing with someone else, when we communicate so little these days?’ she asked.

‘Of course you would.’ Neil was firm. ‘He’d be weird and secretive, giving you far-fetched excuses for where he’s going, then coming back late, smelling of someone else’s soap. Devan never goes anywhere, you say.’

But what Connie was really asking was whether Devan would know that she had been – however fleetingly, however unintentionally – tempted by someone else.

She waited a quarter of an hour before seeing her husband’s head appear round the pub door, then braced herself.

‘Sorry,’ Devan said, not explaining why he was late. He sat down, laying his phone carefully on the table between them. Connie had bought two glasses of red wine. It was a Monday and the place empty so early, except for Dix – the resident drunk – perched on his habitual stool at the far end of the bar.

‘How’s Neil?’ Devan asked eventually, as if he were madly searching for a topic of conversation with his own wife.

‘Fine. Sends his love.’ Connie did not elaborate. She was on a mission and not going to be diverted, given the suspicions Neil had planted in her mind. ‘Devan, can we talk about something? Your phone, what exactly are you doing on it all day?’

He looked surprised, then frowned. ‘Why? Does it bother you?’ His tone was not quite rude, more nonchalant as he reached for his glass and took a large gulp. She was pretty sure she couldn’t detect any shiftiness in his expression.

She ploughed on regardless, accompanying her words with a poor attempt at a laugh. ‘I feel like Princess Diana, these days. There are three of us in this marriage.’

Devan was silent. Then he said quietly, ‘Or one.’

Confused and taken aback, she just stared at him.

The glance he shot her implied she was being disingenuous.

‘I need to spell it out?’ He took another gulp of wine. ‘You spend virtually seven months of the year on your trips. Then you come home and all you do is monitor me, criticize me.’ He let out a pained sigh. ‘As soon as you step through the door, I feel judged. The house isn’t tidy enough, the surfaces not wiped enough. I haven’t been doing stuff. Plus, I’m not chipper, I drink too much and don’t give you enough sex. And now my phone’s an issue?’ He raised his eyebrows in apparent exasperation.

Connie squirmed. There was some truth in what he’d said – although he chose to exaggerate, as always, the time she spent away. But it was his tone that dismayed her. It was so totally devoid of tenderness. ‘Don’t you wonder why I behave like that?’