Gillard had promised Sam a meal out on the Friday evening. She never set too much store by such promises, because he wasn’t in control of whether he was able to keep them. Still, the sheer fact that he was aware enough of his long absences to try to make amends was a plus point. She herself had had a rough day, and when she reversed the car up the drive at five, trying to avoid a big black SUV carelessly parked half on the far pavement, she could see quite clearly that the net curtains in the house opposite were twitching. Gillard’s Aunt Trish was watching her movements again. Sam felt she was getting a little paranoid. But as the old saying goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean to say they’re not out to get you. The woman’s intrusive nosiness, particularly about Sam’s pregnancy, had grated. It was all very well for her husband to just ignore it, but it was she who was bearing the oppressive burden of living opposite a woman who had forced her way into their lives. It was hard to explain to anyone who had not heard about the court case.

At least tonight, they could get some time away. They’d already discussed where they might move, probably closer to Guildford. Craig was spending more and more of his time doing high-profile work from Mount Browne, so it would make sense. They would certainly keep that a secret from Trish.

The arrival of Craig’s Vauxhall, bang on time, pleased her. As she looked out of the window to confirm the familiar engine note, she again saw the curtains move opposite. Sam was already dressed up, made up and ready, the reservation at the bistro confirmed. She was hungry.

As soon as Craig walked in, she embraced him, and kissed him fiercely.

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘What, since this morning?’ He laughed, putting down his briefcase.

‘Let’s go now,’ she said. ‘I’ll fill you in on the latest spying.’

‘Oh shit. Did you get chance to contact the estate agent?’

‘Yes, they’re coming round next week. I suggest we get it sold without a board outside.’

‘Good idea. Keep her in the dark.’

The reserved table was, as Sam had requested, a secluded booth. The guttering candle shed merely a glow on the dark wood panelling that separated them from other diners. They each ordered a small glass of Barolo and the bistro’s signature thick crusty sourdough bread which they broke between them, and dabbed thickly with the chef’s home-made butter. The main course, as usual, took nearly an hour to arrive, but Sam’s seabass and Gillard’s halibut were exquisitely cooked. At Sam’s insistence, her husband had turned off his phone. For two delightful hours she had his company entirely to herself. He complimented her on her make-up, and the silk blouse she had chosen to go with the light blue peasant skirt and suede boots. It was only as they approached dessert that he finally mentioned work.