In her bleary state, London seemed painfully loud and frenetic as she manoeuvred her wheelie-case through the crowds to the Underground and Paddington for the journey home. She kept picturing Devan at the station, imagining that smile of his, the enthusiasm he would show at her return. Because she wanted to prepare herself, plant herself firmly on the path back to her marriage.

But her night with Jared intruded. It was like trying to master the breathing exercises in her yoga class. ‘Focus on the breath,’ Nadia would say. ‘Acknowledge your thoughts, then let them drift away, bring yourself back to the breath.’ How long will it be like this? she wondered, in despair.

Devan, however, appeared subdued in the days after she got back. He was loving and attentive, but the burst of enthusiasm he’d shown around their anniversary seemed to evaporate on her return. He kept looking at her as if he were trying to gauge something about her. Connie found it hard to meet his eye. She couldn’t allow him to see what lurked in the depths.

‘We should talk,’ Devan said, one evening. Supper was on the table, the doors to the garden closed against the teeming summer rain outside. It was hot in the kitchen, and Connie had drunk at least two glasses of white wine while she was cooking the chicken and vegetable stew.

Her husband was leaning on the back of one of the wooden chairs, although she had doled out his chicken into one of the Delft-patterned bowls she’d picked up in a charity shop, and pushed the dish of buttered peas towards him. With seeming reluctance, he pulled out the chair and sat down. But he didn’t begin to eat.

Frowning, she said, ‘What?’

He flicked his eyebrows up, his blue eyes clouding as they looked at her. ‘I sense you’re not onboard, Connie.’

It was fair comment. There was no point in denying it. She said nothing, glancing down at her food and helping herself automatically to some peas. The silence stretched, like claggy pizza dough, and she knew she had to answer him. But she also knew that whatever she said would be only a fraction of the truth. She hated herself for the deception.

Taking a deep breath, she began: ‘OK, well, you’re right. I’m not finding it easy.’ Devan’s face showed nothing, so she ploughed on. ‘I know you’ve been struggling for a while … and that’s nobody’s fault. But it’s been hard for me too, Devan. I tried to pass it off, knowing you were in a bad way, but still … I’m only human, and so many months of rejection felt pretty personal …’