Ridiculous, really, when Avigail would have been horrified and certainly wouldn’t have kept it secret. He would have told her, inevitably, and she would have told everyone – he’d never been able to stop himself. He’d been young and naive, but even so, it was absurd the way his words just tumbled out as soon as he saw her. He’d never understood why, had only realised that he had to stop seeing her, had to distance himself from the only woman who got so completely under his skin. Julianne, though – he looked at her, still fast asleep, the duvet bunched around her face but pushed off her legs – Julianne would probably keep the secret if he asked her to. What he was worried about was that if he told one person, he would tell more. He had to keep his silence. And he found it easier, nowadays, to hide the truth when he needed to. Where had he learned to do that? It was one of those slow changes in his character that he’d have resisted had he been aware of it, but having only just noticed how easily he lied to her it was already ingrained. He would have found it more difficult to tell her the truth.

But why? She would have understood. She loved the pouch, and he was trying to save it. That’s what he was trying to do. Save it.

If only it hadn’t been Holly Bhattacharyya’s great-grandchild.

He shook his head, disgusted at himself, and brushed his teeth vigorously. Toothpaste mingled with blood in the basin, and he swished it away with the cold tap, splashing the water onto his face as well. And then he looked up.

There was no mirror above their basin, just a wall of pale blue tiles. They’d done the work themselves, he and Julianne, one weekend a few years ago – toasting their success on the Sunday night with a bottle of wine – and he’d gone into work late the next morning, hung-over and happy. It had been a long time since he’d done that.

He went back to the bed, and knelt down by Julianne’s side. She stirred, stretched a bare leg beyond the mattress.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, keeping his voice quiet, barely louder than a breath.

She said some words that weren’t words, just the made-up noises of sleep, as if she was talking to him in her dream. He picked up his bag and keys, closed the door quietly behind him and headed for the Tube.