Devan shifted his chair, banging the table leg as he moved his foot, which made the wine in the glasses splash, the cutlery judder. ‘For Christ’s sake, Connie …’ That was all he said as he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Connie looked at Lynne. Her sister’s eyes widened in question.

‘What are you trying to say?’ Connie asked her husband, her chest constricted.

His arms crossed defiantly across his chest, Devan viewed her through half-open lids. ‘Italy. You’re in love with Italy. You come home all starry-eyed and distracted … like you’ve been with your lover.’

Connie got up quickly. The threatened flush was on the march, she could feel it. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said curtly, beginning vigorously to scrub out the pasta pan and turning the tap on full as if the noise might hide her shame.

She heard Lynne say brightly, ‘How lovely for her. I’d take Italy for a lover tomorrow if I had the chance – Roddy or no Roddy.’

Either her words had stunned Devan into silence, or he’d passed out – Connie didn’t want to turn around and confirm which – but she silently blessed her sister.

Her husband hadn’t finished, though. ‘Seriously, Lynne. Explain what you would do, if you were me? Should I just sit here like the pathetic cuckold I am and wait for this love affair to run its course?’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Or find my own diversion, perhaps.’

As Connie listened to the exchange behind her, she knew Devan wasn’t – couldn’t be – talking about Jared. But he seemed to be right there, in the Somerset kitchen, and she couldn’t prevent the spike of desire that washed over her at the memory of the cool bricks through her cotton dress, the warmth of Jared’s fingers on her bare thigh. She felt the supper she’d just eaten churning dangerously in her rigid belly as she upended the pan on the draining-board and turned to face them.

‘If I were you, Devan,’ Lynne was replying coolly, ‘I’d sod off to bed before I said something even more stupid. And when I woke up tomorrow, I’d wonder why my devoted wife might want to take a lover.’

Connie felt tears filling her eyes at her sister’s spirited defence. She blinked them quickly away as Devan got to his feet.

‘Lucky you’re not me, then,’ he growled, swaying on his feet. Then he lurched towards the door and was gone.

The kitchen was silent, both women listening to his progress upstairs and the slam of the bathroom door.

‘Sorry,’ Connie said.

Her sister waved her hand, dismissing the apology. But she was eyeing Connie steadily. After another silence, she said, ‘A bit too close to the bone?’