The hulk of polished mahogany was the only furniture in the dining room, their wedding-day china still wrapped in newspaper, chairs stacked against the wall, the cut glass crystal tumblers she had bought him for their fifteenth anniversary buried under Bubble Wrap. But none of that mattered to Garrick. Once he was driving the train, there was no derailing him. He left the everyday practicalities to Olivia.

The neighbors on both sides had already lodged a list of objections, but the architect in him knew that getting them on board was the key to a happy ship. Not that Olivia was ever happy. Even a beautiful home, two children and a loyal husband hadn’t been enough for her.

Garrick studied his drawings. He’d done an excellent job, even if he said so himself. Shame it might turn out to be a waste of time. When they had bought this house, he’d been desperate to make a go of their marriage, and still wanted to, if he was honest, but Olivia was so distant, so painfully dissatisfied with her life, that he was considering cutting his losses.

When he had met her—in a pub in Didsbury on a summer night not much different from this one—she had been giddy on vodka and ambition. He had walked her home and they had sat on her front step, chatting for hours about the shape their lives would take.

She had captivated him with her easy laugh, her dreams about starting her own advertising agency, and with talk of the deposit she had saved for her first flat. He had revealed shyly his own plans to run an architect’s practice in New York, and later, when the night sky was lightening, his hopes of becoming a father one day.

They were married two years later. She never did buy that flat or start her own business and he never went to New York. Instead, Aster came along, and then Evan, and somewhere along the way, their youthful plans were discarded for middle-aged responsibilities.

And now they found themselves here. In a marriage he wasn’t sure could withstand the earthquake of her infidelity. In a house that neither of them loved and they could barely afford. Aster and Evan were growing up. In another couple of years, his daughter would be gone. But what about him? Should he stay or go?

If he left Olivia—and who could blame him?—he would still see the children. Perhaps not as much as he was used to, but he’d make damn sure they always had a good time. No shouting or arguments. Trips to the cinema and bowling and miniature golf. Quality over quantity and all that bollocks. He’d have to sort the house out first, though. Didn’t want to risk losing another truckload of money.