But Tom wasn’t listening. He pulled up a chair beside her, reaching for her hands again.

‘I thought you didn’t . . .’ There was that smile again, so familiar, unfamiliar. ‘I didn’t know what to do . . . I so wanted . . .’

Miranda felt exhaustion descending like a blanket. ‘It’s not . . .’

She stared down at her hands. There was an ink stain on her right hand, she noticed. And her gold wedding ring. Bangles jingled on her wrist, a memory of love.

Tom interrupted her again. ‘They can do so much, these days, Miranda. I spoke to Reuben . . .’

‘Reuben?’ The mention of one of his colleagues confused her. ‘Why on earth were you talking to Reuben . . .’

‘I just’ – he peered at her face, shrugged – ‘did. I’ve been so desperate for this to happen, Miranda . . . We never . . . talked.’

Not yet.

‘No,’ Miranda almost shouted the word, suddenly desperate to cut him off. ‘It’s not what you think, Tom. It’s just . . . That leaflet is just for work.’

The words took a moment to reach him, and then his face shattered.

‘Work?’ Tom stared down at the leaflet. ‘How can this be work?’

‘It just is.’ Miranda snatched the leaflet off him, rammed it into her handbag. ‘Don’t go through my bag again, Tom.’

‘I wasn’t . . .’ Tom turned towards the window, looked out to the dark garden. ‘You mean, you’re not. You don’t want . . .’

He was staring through the security shutters, still pulled across. Outside, the cherry-tree branches rattled in the wind.

‘No,’ Miranda heard a new cruelty in her voice. ‘I don’t think I do, Tom. No.’

She felt an odd flood of regret and relief. A blaze of guilt too, as his shoulders sank. From her chair, Miranda watched his back. He was tall, Tom. His dark hair thinning slightly in a patch at the back. He was still wearing his suit from work: the blue shirt, the navy pinstripe, the black shoes.

‘Never?’ He turned, and for a second, the movement twisted her heart, so that she almost reached out for him. But she placed her hands flat on the kitchen table.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But we’ve said . . .’

‘We haven’t.’ It was almost true. It sounded true.

Tom folded his arms, almost hugging himself. He bowed his head, staring at his shoes.

I will never lie to you, she had promised him, long ago. That one promise in a life full of lies: I will always tell you the truth.

A lie.

‘You know I love you, Miranda.’ Tom spoke into a silence. ‘But this . . . I need this.’

‘I can’t, Tom.’

‘But you can,’ he said. ‘You can.’

The kitchen was silent. Miranda stared at the pink roses, in their crumpled brown paper and the pretty blue ribbon. She thought about shaping herself, time and again, to what the world wanted.

My foundations.

Her fingers curled to fists.