Dinner is exquisite. More champagne and dainty amuse-bouches are followed by an incredibly light soufflé, then quail with dauphinoise potatoes, and a platter of desserts. And lots of wine, of course.

I thought it was traditional for chalet girls to eat with their guests, but it turns out this isn’t that kind of chalet. I should have guessed. In fact, I should have known, being the one who booked it. Millie moves efficiently between the table and the kitchen, bringing dishes, clearing plates, pouring more wine and water, so no one’s glass ever runs dry. Simon is booming away about something – I’m not really listening – and every now and then Hugo laughs or agrees sycophantically. I feel a stab of hatred for him, and then feel guilty. I knew what I was getting into when I married him. It isn’t his fault.

Cass and I make polite conversation during dinner. She is sweet but dull. I ask her about the baby even though there is probably no one in the world less interested in babies than me, and she answers politely but somewhat uninterestedly. Before Inigo’s birth she worked in catering; she hasn’t decided if she’s going back to work yet but probably not; Simon is keen she stays at home. She’s not very forthcoming. I talk a bit about my work and mine and Hugo’s wedding and she smiles and nods, her eyes glazing.

I’m beginning to wish I had tried harder to persuade Hugo I didn’t need to come along this week.

Millie returns with a tray of coffees and herbal teas and places it gently on the table. ‘Unless you need anything else, I’ll say goodnight?’ she says, tactfully phrasing it as a question. She must be desperate to leave by now. ‘I’ll see you all in the morning. What time would you like breakfast?’

‘Eight o’clock please!’ Simon says, without as much as catching anyone else’s eye for agreement. ‘We want to be out on the first lift tomorrow, don’t we, Hugo?’

‘Absolutely!’ he agrees, as I knew he would. Whatever Simon says goes this week.

‘Ladies?’ Simon adds. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of booking you an instructor – I hope you don’t mind.’

I open my mouth to object – I don’t want to get up at eight o’clock and nor do I want a ski lesson. But Hugo shoots me a look and I close my mouth again, silently fuming.

‘Sounds great,’ says Hugo.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go to bed,’ I say, yawning theatrically and picking up a mug of herbal tea. ‘I’m going to have this in our room.’

‘Be there in a minute, darling,’ Hugo calls. My skin prickles, and I pretend I haven’t heard.