‘You’ve been talking to them about our marriage?’ Connie was taken aback. She’d left for Poland with a husband who was hardly speaking to her and returned to find a man who was smelling the bacon and baring his soul, not just to his best friend but to everyone they knew.

‘Why not? They’re our friends, Con.’ He paused. ‘They’re rooting for us.’

Connie fidgeted uneasily. She didn’t deserve her friends’ support of her or the McCabe marriage. Not any more. When she looked at Devan again, his face was lit up with his old smile, not the jaded, tacked-on version of recent months, which faded almost before it had begun. It was tentative, as if he were unsure whether he was allowed to charm her like this. But it was there.

He got up and came round the table, hovering beside her. She rose. For a moment they stood in silence, as if they – who had been married for over thirty years – had forgotten how to hug each other. Then Devan opened his arms. Connie breathed out, feeling tears press behind her eyes as she leaned against him and felt overwhelming guilt, love and relief fight for pole position inside her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ Devan said, into her hair. ‘I’m so sorry things got so out of hand between us, Connie.’

She looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, then laid her head back on his chest with a long sigh. Although he has no idea what else I’m sorry for, she thought.

Devan let her go and she sat down, so weary suddenly, the air going out of her, like a deflating balloon. She was exhausted from everything that had happened on the Polish trip: the nightmare of Auschwitz, the sleepless nights with Jared, her overriding guilt and conflicted thoughts. Now she was also bemused.

Devan went to the side and picked up a bottle of Rioja, waving it at her with a question in his eyes. She smiled, nodded, and he brought two glasses from the cupboard, set them on the table and poured a little into each. He sat down opposite her and held his glass aloft. ‘To us?’ he asked hesitantly.

Connie chinked her glass against his. ‘To us.’

Is this real? She didn’t want to question his volte-face and jeopardize this precious moment between them, but after months and months of negativity, she felt she didn’t recognize this version of her husband.

‘You don’t look too thrilled, Con,’ Devan was saying. He sounded puzzled, bordering on hurt.

Connie dragged herself from her thoughts with effort. ‘No, I am. I’m really pleased for you, of course I am. And for us … It’s just all quite sudden …’