‘Oh, you don’t have to lie to me.’ Her mother was always indefatigable, and Sasha was shocked to see her so forlorn. There was little sign of the iron certainty that made Ursula Chancellor so impervious to life’s slings and arrows. ‘I know I can be a difficult person to love.’

‘Stop it,’ said Sasha softly. ‘Tell me what’s going on?’

Ursula stood wearily. ‘I understand it’s hard having an older person in the house. We get under everybody’s feet. We don’t mean to, we mean well, but after a certain age we’re of no use to anybody.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll leave first thing.’

‘You can stay as long as you like.’

Her mother said she was going to bed, but ended up fussing around the kitchen, and Sasha went up instead. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, wiped off her make-up and peed.

She undressed in the dark bedroom, plugged in her phone, slipped on the T-shirt she slept in. The curtains were pulled but when her eyes adjusted she saw Kev asleep in bed. She leaned close to his face, heard his breath, which was flat and slow, and saw his eyes fluttering beneath the lids.

Climbing in, she pressed herself against her husband’s back. It was still so stifling and she felt immediately uncomfortable, knew she wouldn’t be able to snuggle against him for long.

‘Kev?’ She squeezed his shoulder. ‘Can we talk? About this morning, about… everything?’

He grunted, half asleep. ‘Tired… tomorrow.’

‘You promise?’ she asked.

He murmured a yes, but then his breath flattened again into sleep.

Sasha touched his cheek, whispered, ‘Who are you and what have you done with my husband?’

11

Sasha drove her Spider Veloce along the esplanade beneath a sky that was a perfect, unblemished blue. Her beloved Spider was knackered now; it had exhaust and suspension problems, and a rusty floorpan, and she very much doubted whether it would survive another MOT, but it was perfect for mornings like this. She could put the top down, pull on her sunnies and let the breeze cool her face on the drive into work.

To her left, the sea glittered in the sun. White fingers of surf crawled placidly up the beach. Tourists were already up and about, wearing football shirts, shorts and sliders. Club crests inked on their calves, ice creams in hand, they pushed baby buggies and prams towards the pubs along the seafront to grab a full English and an early morning pint. Some of the men already had their tops off, revealing angry red shoulders and brown bellies that poured over the elastic of their shorts like tarmac from a tipper, and the women had rolled their bikini tops as far below their tan lines as they dared.