She was starting to see it, though, earlier. She wanted to test me, which I can accept. She needs to be sure.

Like I am. I am sure this is right, and that helps with everything. It provides clarity. Who could do what I have done if they had doubts? Even if she tells me she does not want this, I know she does. I see more clearly than her. It’s my job to guide her to the light.

I have food for her. She will be hungry. Smoked trout. Greek salad. Feta, cucumbers, tomato. Fresh bread from my favourite bakery. The bottle of Piper Heidsieck I removed earlier: 2008, a vintage year. Very good with seafood.

Not the kind of crap she is used to. Last time I was at her house I was appalled at the swill her fool of a husband was letting her pollute herself with.

I think it was Australian. I could hardly bear to look. She deserves so much better. And this is the start of her getting what she deserves. It will take time for her to realize what she has been missing. In a way it is like deprogramming someone from a cult, but I have time. Time does not worry me. I am above time. Beyond it.

I unlock the door. I am looking forward to seeing her. This has been in the making for years but now I know she is there it is hard to be away.

She is standing by the window. Her face is pale. She looks tired.

It must be the pain. The package of ibuprofen is empty.

My poor darling.

‘Here,’ I say. ‘Have a little food.’

Annabelle

1

The door opened. He was wearing a pair of dark grey trousers and a white, tailored shirt.

In his hands he held a tray with a plate of salad on it, and a bottle of champagne. Probably the one from earlier.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Have a little food.’

What hunger she had been feeling drained away.

‘Maybe later,’ she said.

‘You’re not hungry?’

‘A little. I might try it in a bit.’

He put the tray on the table and gestured at the bottle.

‘Drink? It’s a good bottle. Vintage.’

She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know the difference.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But you will. Should I open it?’

She didn’t know what to say. Champagne was for moments of celebration: a wedding, or the birth of a child, or seeing a good friend after a long absence. It was not for this. It was a sign of how far apart they were: he was hoping to drink champagne; it was the last thing she wanted.

‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘If you want to, go ahead.’

He frowned. ‘I got it for you!’

‘I’m not in the mood.’