God, this was killing him. Why was he doing it to himself? So what if Ava would see the city he’d planned to take his wife to and now would never visit, so what if the pair of them were a couple of spoilt rich kids with no idea of how brutal real life could be. He couldn’t drive like this. He’d have to walk into town and buy a coffee.

Hey Mike been held up sorry. Are you okay to hold the fort for another hour or so? Angie’s due on at lunchtime so you’re not on your own.

Within seconds, the reply flashed up on his screen:

No problem take your time. See you when you get back.

Donald put his phone away and offered up a tiny guilty prayer of thanks for the downturn in the building trade that had delivered Mike to him. Mike was the kind of employee you dreamed about but never quite believed in – dependable, unflappable, unemotional. He couldn’t imagine how he’d ever managed to run the pub without him. He turned in the direction of the town.

The town centre was an ersatz copy of the London of his former life. They did say it took a decade for the rest of the country to catch up. Here were the arty boutiques, windows dressed with old mirrors and battered Victorian mannequins. Here were the wine bars that also served a million different coffees, blonde wood and olive paint and square plates on tall tables. Here were the women conspiring over plates of salad and wine glasses large enough to keep a goldfish in. Glancing through a plate-glass window, he saw a faintly familiar figure in tall heels and a beige trouser-suit.

The woman he’d seen earlier, masquerading as Ellen. Across the table from her, his back to the window, was a man in a dark suit. So his vision of her lunchtime had been right. Were they having a nice lunch? The man’s back looked tense and angry. Bet they were having a huge whispered argument; too posh to let go in public and really scream at each other. He grinned to himself and went inside to take a closer look.

He ordered a double espresso, enjoying the rich bitter scent even before he took his first mouthful, and then the dirty pleasure of the coffee itself, the way it prickled your throat like cigarette smoke and shot into your bloodstream like nicotine. The couple in the window were drinking wine. A frosty glass of white for him, and, rather unexpectedly, a rich glass of red for her. He’d have thought she’d be afraid of spills.

As if his thought had jinxed her, her fingers grasped clumsily for the stem of her glass and sloshed a luscious red-black glob into her biscuit-coloured lap. He expected her to panic and call for napkins and salt and ice-cold water. Instead, she shrugged and drank from her glass. It was her companion who was angry, handing her napkins and a water glass. Maybe he’d paid for the suit.