Lynne glanced at her, her expression unreadable, but said nothing.

‘You might be surprised by how well Roddy copes.’

Connie dragged out the pasta pot from the bottom of the pan drawer and put it under the tap. Lynne had been so independent, so highly thought of in her professional life – it staggered her that she should be reduced to this.

‘I’ve got the vegetable garden,’ she heard her sister say, almost defensively. ‘That takes up a lot of my time. And I’m learning the ukulele – there’s a man in the village who gives classes. I’m pretty crap, but it’s fun.’

Connie smiled encouragingly and refilled her sister’s glass. She was just opening the fridge to get out the lettuce when the front door banged and Devan appeared. It was clear to Connie that he’d been drinking from his loose expression and the way in which he leaned to starboard, resting his head against the jamb.

Lynne jumped. ‘Hi, Devan.’

‘Lynne … didn’t know you were going to be here.’

‘I did tell you,’ Connie objected, but remembered she, too, had forgotten her sister’s visit. ‘I thought you’d be late.’

Devan shrugged off his jacket and slung it onto a chair, immediately going to the cupboard and bringing out a wine glass. ‘Bill wasn’t interested in the car.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘No, I’m starving. We stopped off at a pub on the way back, but all I had was a packet of pork scratchings.’

‘Nice healthy snack,’ Lynne commented drily. She couldn’t help herself when it came to Devan.

Ignoring her, he sat down heavily at the head of the table and filled his glass. The atmosphere had changed.

Devan said barely a word over supper, just shovelled spaghetti into his mouth and drank large quantities of Chianti. Connie felt constrained by his brooding presence. Lynne was also wary, her remarks brittle and loaded as Devan’s drunkenness became more acute. Conversation stuttered and finally died out altogether as Connie emptied a carton of fresh pineapple chunks into a bowl and put it, with a slab of local Cheddar, on the table.

‘So,’ Devan looked over at Lynne, ‘I suppose Connie’s been filling you in … about her lover.’

Her sister looked puzzled.

Connie’s heart jolted. She tried to breathe, daring her cheeks to colour on pain of death, wanting immediately to refute the allegation. No words would come. Devan was staring at her now.

‘No? Go on, then. Tell your sister all about it.’ His tone was almost menacing, although his words were slurred.

What does he know? Her thoughts were spinning frantically about her brain. The book. Had he realized it wasn’t she who’d ordered it?