I read the e-mail three times. I don’t know how long I sat there before I understood what it said. I went back to the office to pick up my bag.

I needed to talk to Tom.

CHAPTER 65

Ruby

Through habit I parked in my usual place by the side of the road. Tom’s car was on the driveway. Just as I reached the front door, a black BMW pulled up onto the drive, blocking in Tom’s car.

A man in his fifties jumped out and opened the doors for a younger couple who were sitting in the backseat. I had no idea who any of them were.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

Just then the front door opened and Tom came outside. He was smartly dressed in a suit and tie and beamed at the visitors. “Hello, John, it’s good to see you again. Is this Mr. and Mrs. Sampson?” He shook their hands. “Nice to meet you. Come on in.”

I stood there like a fool while all of them backslapped one another, then the couple turned to me, as though wondering why on earth I was there.

“I’m Ruby Dean,” I said.

They did a double take, then turned as one to Tom for verification.

He came over to me and kissed my cheek. “This is my wife,” he said to them.

Then there were effusive hellos in my direction and they trooped into the house.

“I wasn’t expecting them to get here this early,” Tom whispered to me. He smiled. “I’ll show them round and then we can talk.”

It seemed he thought we were going to have quite a different kind of chat.

“Let’s start with the kitchen,” said Tom to the potential buyers.

I couldn’t bear it. The kitchen had been my domain. My home, really. I’d bought every single thing in it; everything was the way I wanted it. I couldn’t stand to see someone else go into it and judge it.

“I’ll wait in the living room,” I said. “You don’t want too many people around.” I stood in the doorway and looked around. Everything in this room was Tom’s: The cameras and books on photography. The pictures he’d bought and put up without any thought of consultation. I liked some of them, but that was irrelevant. I’d learned not to tell him if I liked something; I’d known it to disappear. Whenever I said I liked something there’d be a silence or worse, laughter. “You shouldn’t take it personally,” he’d said. “It’s not a reflection on you that you don’t have good taste.” I thought that’s exactly what it was.