She had never imagined herself to be one of those women who throw their lover’s clothes out of the window, screaming and making a scene. Sewing shellfish into the hems of his trousers or cutting up suits. She still wasn’t that woman. But she had packed most of his belongings into a case and it was waiting in the hallway. He could collect it in the morning.

A hammering on the door.

She rolled onto her side, pillow over her head. The hammering stopped. Her phone vibrated with a message. She turned it off. The hammering began again.

Dessie pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs. As soon as she switched on the hall light, the noise ceased.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said through the letter box. She had no idea where he had been. He had not mentioned he was going out after work, and certainly not so late. “I think you’ve locked me out.”

“Yes,” she said. “Benjamin.”

She had half expected him to deny it, but his silence told her everything. Eventually, he spoke, but there was no fire in his voice, just defeat. “How did you find out?”

That admission of guilt was all it took to douse the outrage that had driven her since her discovery. She slid down the wall by the door, too tired to fight.

“The garage. I was going to book us a surprise holiday.” Her voice cracked on surprise.

“Let me in, sweetheart,” he said. “I can explain everything.”

“Like why you were spying on unsuspecting women?”

“It was a horrible mix-up, Dessie. An awful fucking time. I was cataloging clouds, but they thought I was a pervert. I had to plead guilty, or they’d have sent me to prison.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“You wouldn’t have given me the time of day,” he said. “You wouldn’t have given me so much as a second look.” He started to cry. “Would you? Would you?”

Dessie could never bear the sound of someone crying. And she had always tried so hard not to make judgments about people.

“I might have.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Nobody would. No smoke without fire—isn’t that what they say?”

He was right. She would have run a mile if she’d known about his conviction. But he might not be lying about his motivations. She’d heard the same from one of her sister’s friends, whose brother had gone to prison. He’d refused to admit his guilt and, in her summing up, the judge had remarked on his lack of remorse and sentenced him to seven years.

She loved Fletcher. But she didn’t know if she believed him.