She flinched in recoil and then looked at him properly, big and fleshy, standing over her. It was like he was an animal who had left his mark on her. She turned and opened the door and left. As she walked down the stairs she heard his bare feet padding behind her.

Forty-Nine

“We need coffee,” said Vin as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“No.” Jude spoke more sharply than she had intended. “I need to get my bag and coat and then I’m going.”

“Suit yourself.”

He smiled at her, friendly and at ease, then ambled toward the kitchen.

Jude’s coat was still on the hook in the hall but her bag wasn’t in the living room and she had no idea where she had left it.

She went quietly into the conservatory, praying there would be no one in there. To her relief it was empty. Discarded items of clothing were strewn around; a silky pair of tights was draped over the edge of a framed print and a beautiful cashmere jacket lay coiled among a plate of chocolate profiteroles. The branches of greenery she’d carried in yesterday—was it only yesterday afternoon?—were already withering. Pools of wax from burned-out candles congealed on the windowsills.

But she couldn’t see her bag.

She pressed her face to the glass door. Outside, it was misty and drizzling; the bonfire was a nasty smoldering mess with half-burned sheets of paper lying in curls at its edge. She could make out the remains of the chairs that had been hurled on there last night.

Her bag must be in the kitchen, which was where Vin was. Where she didn’t want to be. She took a gulping breath, stood up straight and pushed open the door.

“Oh,” she said.

Vin was in there, standing near the hob carving doorstep slices from an oversized loaf of whole-wheat bread, seemingly oblivious to the mess all around him.

But so was Danny, sitting at the table with Alfie on her lap and a mug of coffee cradled in both hands. Her hair was pulled back into an intricate coil, and she was wearing baggy pinstripe trousers and a sage-green cardigan, buttoned up to her neck.

“Good morning, Jude,” she said with a horrible composure. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“No,” she said. “Thank you.”

She was violently hot and felt that her face must be burning.

“Jude is keen to leave,” said Vin, inserting several slices of bread under the grill.

Alfie was banging his spoon on the table.

“I just need my bag, my keys. I think it must be in here somewhere.”

She gazed around the room despairingly, at the stacks of dirty plates and pans, the glasses, many of which were still half-full, at the bowls of leftover food—soggy cake and limp potato wedges, mashed avocado that had turned gray and watery.

The kitchen door opened behind her.