When they reached the bedroom, it had been she who took the initiative, almost rushing him – as previously he had her – in an attempt to prove that she could do this, that things were right between them. Devan was receptive. But the whole thing felt wrong to Connie. Both of them were over-zealous, as if they were showcasing their sexual skills rather than making love, neither fully confident in each other’s bodies after the years of disconnect. As if they were strangers.

Afterwards, they did not speak, there were only brief smiles, no cosy cuddles. They just turned over and went to sleep, Connie using drunkenness as her escape. But it seemed like a necessary hurdle and she was relieved it had been jumped – although the sex itself had left her feeling restless and empty. Left her feeling cruel.

Connie had spent the day ironing and filling her case. It was trickier to decide what to take for UK tours, with scant chance of warmth and sunshine. As with the previous trips that year, she was desperate to get away. But not for the same reasons. Before, she had needed an escape from the tensions of her marriage. Now she felt she needed a break from Devan’s unintentionally guilt-inducing love. His gaze was constantly upon her, willing her to be loving and happy – to share his enthusiasm that they were getting back on track. She felt she was playacting through her every waking hour and it was exhausting. One more day, she kept telling herself, as they ate macaroni cheese in front of the television that night. She refused to think of what lay in store for her in Scotland.

Later, as she came through from the bathroom to the bedroom, Devan, sitting hunched on the bed with his back to her, jumped and quickly clicked off his phone. She wanted to ask whom he was calling, but his body-language seemed so guilty, the words dried in her throat.

‘Hey.’ Devan carefully laid his phone face down on the bedside table and turned as he got up and began to undress. ‘Looking forward to Scotland?’ he said, with forced heartiness, his smile self-conscious as he pulled his T-shirt over his head.

What’s going on? Connie gave him a quizzical smile. ‘Sort of … Will you miss me?’

‘Of course I will,’ he said, not meeting her eye as he climbed into bed. ‘So, tomorrow … I was thinking, instead of cooking on your last night, do you fancy a pub supper? We haven’t been out in ages.’ He was gazing at her oddly now, a small grin playing around his mouth. But she couldn’t work out what it all meant and was too tired to ask.

‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘That would be nice.’

Her husband’s eyes were still fixed on her as he watched her taking off her gold Russian-ring bracelet and laying it beside her glass of water. ‘What?’ she asked, impatient suddenly.

‘Nothing …’