He checked the time again.

This was it. He smoothed down his trousers and picked a piece of cotton from his sleeve. Reminding himself to stop on the way and buy her flowers, he locked up and headed for the car.

* * *

Darkness had fallen. His smart clothes lay in a heap where he had thrown them. It was nine o’clock, and he was well into his third scotch. He had meant to ring Matt, or Philip, or Sam, or the Samaritans — he wasn’t sure which — but in the end he had called no one.

He had spent nearly half an hour with some stranger, a poor imitation of the woman he had married. Kate had sat there wearing a smile that he didn’t recognise, her hair brushed into a style that wasn’t hers.

Before he went in to see her, Lawrence Hassel had advised him that she would be subdued, and perhaps a little forgetful or confused. This was only the effect of her medication and he was not to worry. It would soon begin to wear off as she became more accustomed to the powerful drugs. The good doctor had neglected to mention that Will would not actually be seeing Kate, but some badly put together doppelgänger.

He had cut short his visit and left without saying a word to anyone.

The last thing Will remembered about that terrible day was the clatter as the whisky bottle slid from his grasp and struck the floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Will sat on the bench and eyed the latest crack in the wall. A few had appeared since the fen had flooded for the second time and they had called in a surveyor, who had assured them that there was nothing to worry about. Pity, thought Will. He still hated the place.

When the man went on to admire the house, calling it a “sturdy old building, well designed and constructed to withstand the elements and the soft Lincolnshire soil,” Kate had smiled, taking the compliment personally.

They had now lived there a full year.

In the end, Lawrence Hassel had worked wonders. Kate was, to all intents and purposes, back to normal. Except that she could not paint. Both the skill and the desire had gone, and her work for Angela’s eighth volume had been rejected. As Will had feared, the illustrations were far too dark and frightening for a children’s book. Her contract had been terminated.

To his immense sadness, he soon discovered that along with her desire to paint, Kate had also lost her passion for life. Only Will seemed to notice that Kate had become a pretty shell, an empty husk. Of late, he had sensed her drawing even further away from him.