Connie straightened up, bamboo fronds clutched in one hand, brushing her hair out of her eyes with the back of her gardening glove. It was hot and she was sweating from her exertions. She hadn’t slept well and felt nervy and out of control, worried that somehow things had escalated with Jared at the arrival of the book … and her sister knowing.

Although, she kept telling herself, Jared belonged to Italy, and she wasn’t due for another Italian tour this year. He was hardly going to pitch up in Warsaw. It was just a mad moment. Connie knew she should feel relieved by this certainty, but somehow she did not. ‘Let’s not argue, Devan,’ she said quietly.

Her husband was staring off down the garden. When his gaze returned to her, she saw a softening in his face that matched her own. He gave her a tired smile. ‘Sorry about last night,’ he said.

Later that morning, Connie and Devan drove over to Wells to potter round the outdoor market. The stalls were set up in the square outside the Bishop’s Palace, with all manner of goods, from cheese and home-made pies to silver bracelets and wooden ducks. Connie felt awkward with her husband. It seemed such a long time since they had done that sort of thing together, and she wanted it to be fun, for them to find some common ground again. He hadn’t seemed particularly enthusiastic when she’d suggested a day out so she felt the pressure was on her to make it work.

‘Lunch?’ she asked brightly, when they’d exhausted the stalls, buying local goat’s cheese, some spicy sausages and a cotton sweater with a train on it for Bash. ‘I need a sit-down.’

Devan grinned and nodded. ‘The Close?’ It was their favourite restaurant, although they hadn’t been there for over a year now.

When they arrived the place was empty, a sticker on the streaked plate glass of the window saying it had closed down sometime in April.

‘No!’ Connie felt unreasonably disappointed. They stood staring through at the interior, remembering the many lovely meals they had enjoyed there. It had been a romantic spot for them in the past, one they’d chosen for birthdays and anniversaries, the food not fancy, mostly steaks and grilled fish, but beautifully cooked. In her overwrought state it felt like a portent.

‘We could get a hog-roast bun from that stall and sit on a bench?’ Devan suggested half-heartedly. ‘Or find a pub …’

But the joy seemed to have left them. They were two people going through the motions, when really they would have liked just to go home and get on with things separately, reduce the need to avoid topics of conversation that were contentious – Italy, tours, travel of any sort, retirement, her sister, Bill, alcohol consumption. The list was getting ever longer.