When he came into the living room I saw he’d changed into his old gray T-shirt and jeans. He was barefoot and looked happy and carefree. He carried a tray in with the coffee. He’d used the better crockery, the stuff we kept for guests. I supposed I was one now. On the tray was a plate of biscuits and I realized he was trying to impress, as though a well-presented tea tray would make up for trying to drive me crazy.

He poured coffee from the French press and passed me a mug, then sat down on the sofa opposite me.

“It’s good to see you, Ruby,” he said, as though he was used to me dropping in. As though we had no history between us. As though we weren’t at war. “How’re things?”

I said nothing. I took the coffee, more for something to do, and sipped it. He could never make a good cup of coffee, and this was no different. I would have been better off with the vodka, or whatever it was he’d been fortifying himself with. But I was glad of the warmth and wrapped my hands around the mug. I hadn’t realized until then how cold my hands were.

I wanted to say something, to accuse him, but I was frightened of breaking down.

“John seems to think that couple will make an offer,” said Tom.

Distracted, I said, “Who’s John?”

“That guy who was here just now. The estate agent. Mind you, he’s said that before.”

I tried hard to keep my tone civil. “Have many people shown an interest in the house?”

He shrugged. “A few. Some were time-wasters. Others wanted to knock too much off the price. The Sampsons have just come back from living in South Africa and they’re cash buyers.” He took a biscuit and drank some coffee; he looked like he was enjoying it and I resented every mouthful he took. “If they offer a reduced price, what do you think? Shall we just go for it? How far should we go? Five percent?”

I nodded. The sooner it sold, the sooner I could get away from here. The way I felt at the moment I would have sold it for half the price.

He finished his coffee and I noticed when he put his mug down on the tray, his hands were shaking. I wondered whether that was the drink or whether he was nervous. And then he leaned forward and said in his most sincere voice, “Is this what you really want, Ruby?”

I spoke carefully, trying to control myself. “Yes. Let’s just sell up and call it a day.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this, babe,” he said. “Can we talk about it? Can we try again? We’re both at fault, really. Can’t we patch things up? What do you think?”