She realized with a jolt that it was over two years since they’d properly made love – if you didn’t count that night last summer when Neil, Connie’s best friend, and his husband, Brooks, had asked them over, inventing this lethal cocktail of something green and sweet and fizzy, then burned the chicken pie in the Aga. The only thing they’d eaten all evening was a handful of crisps and a piece of toast. Neither she nor Devan had known which way was up and they’d fallen into bed, heads spinning, and fumbled around in some half-hearted rendition of sex. Because although her husband had only just retired, things had been difficult between them for much longer than that: the strain Devan had been under at the surgery had taken a heavy toll.

He lay beside her now, his book – the usual weighty siege-and-massacre tome – propped on his chest. Connie tried to read, but the sentences swam before her eyes and she knew she was wasting her time. She put down the reader and her glasses and switched off the light, turning on her pillow to face her husband. Despite implying earlier that he wasn’t tired, his book was swaying back and forth in his hands, his eyelids fluttering. A small fly was spinning in the beam of the desk lamp he read by, and she watched it for a while, then gently removed his book from his hands, turning down the page corner and closing it.

Devan jerked. ‘Hey, I was reading.’

‘You were almost asleep.’

He sighed and didn’t object, removing his second pillow and slinging it to the floor, then turning off his own light. Their bedroom faced the main street of the village, and a car passed, headlights raking the ceiling in the semi-darkness. Connie placed her palm on his chest and stroked his warm skin. She just wanted some sign of affection, but he made no move to offer any. All he did was clamp her hand to his chest to still her stroking. She could feel the tension flowing off him, like steam from a kettle.

‘A cuddle would be nice,’ she said.

After a moment’s hesitation, Devan lifted his arm so she could lie against him, her head on his shoulder. She felt his hand pull her in, bringing her closer, and she wanted to cry.

‘Love you,’ she said softly.

‘Love you too, Con,’ he replied automatically.

She sensed his heart wasn’t fully behind his words. Despite that, Connie luxuriated in his embrace. He smelt musty, but she didn’t mind. His body was so comforting, so familiar, even in the state he was in, that she didn’t want to let him go. When she woke around three in the morning to pee, she remembered that she’d gone to sleep in his arms, something she hadn’t done for a very long time.

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