Now, I wondered if I would recognize him. I gave his name to the model-­esque maître d’, as though this was a business meeting. She held out a suited arm, gestured towards the back. Of course: he wouldn’t sit close to the windows, even with the ferns for protection. Most likely, very few of the people he knew would come to a place like this either. They would have neighbourhood restaurants near their elegant, bay-­windowed homes. They would know the waiters by name.

I saw him before he saw me: he seemed to be reading the menu with interest, and I wondered if he was going to choose some drippy, pungent brunch: eggs Florentine, perhaps, something I would have to watch slurping into his mouth. But as soon as I arrived at the table he put the menu to one side, firmly. He rose from his chair, gave me a closed-­mouthed smile, a brisk handshake – the skin dry, cool – his eyes meeting mine before he sat back down. He looked more casual than I had seen him before, in a pale blue Oxford shirt, no jacket, the top button undone. He was older than I’d remembered; the skin on his neck was loose and drooping, his hands on the table lightly furred and covered with liver spots. He must have been at least ten years older than Vanessa. No wonder, I thought before I could stop myself, she had wanted Jake, his firmness, the still-­boyish softness of his skin.

I looked down then, worried I was going red. I knew he was assessing me, the wronged wife. I had dressed in the best clothes I could find, but could feel my stomach inflating slowly over the brink of my trousers, my legs sinking too far into the leather of the chair.

It must seem strange – that I asked you here.

He said this without the tone of a question, as though he was completely sure of my feelings, that he had already assessed them, and found them reasonable. Reasonable was – I imagined – the highest goal of people like David and Vanessa Holmes, people with expansive bedrooms and tiny mortgages, who grew up believing it was reasonable to have the lives they wanted.

I nodded, sipped the water that was already poured at my place.

What did you want to see me about? I would not make small talk, I had decided: I would not put him at ease.

The waiter was coming over now – as David opened his mouth to speak he stopped himself, waited until I’d ordered, rearranged his hands on the table as I asked for tea. He still didn’t appear nervous, only seemed to be taking the action that was appropriate in the moment. I had the sense that he would always know what to do, in any moment.