“Why are you asking me?”

I take a risk, run with my hunch. I need to know, was it Greg or Tamsin?

“Just something we caught on camera,” I say, keeping it vague. “But I don’t want to report it to the police because I’d hate to do that to a friend. I just want them to stop,” I say. “I understand if people initially disapproved, but it’s time to move on, live and let live, don’t you think?”

“Very wise,” she says.

“I’m prepared to leave it at that,” I continue. “Although I will keep the footage. I hope I won’t need to use it.”

Tamsin holds a smile in place, clearly trying not to give away her relief, but it’s visible to me nonetheless.

So, Greg wasn’t lying.

I’m happy to play the let’s-pretend-it-never-happened game. I’ve bigger things to worry about as long as she behaves in a less Midsomer Murders-like fashion in future. If I hadn’t thrown out the wedding gift plaque, I’d return it to her now. I should feel angrier, but I’m too tired, and it’s quite fun watching her discomfort as she sips her cold tea, then glances at Jack, asleep in his baby chair as if willing him to wail. He remains chill. Well done, Jack!

She opts for another tactic by rummaging around in her bag.

“I also came round to invite you to this,” she says, handing over a leaflet, which opens out into three sections. “It’s to raise money for new sports equipment for the school.”

I study it. It’s an art exhibition with small photo samples of some of the exhibits. Greg (no surprise there) is taking part, and there are pictures of his photos.

“Did you decide which photos he’d use, or did he?”

“We selected them together, actually. He said he’s going to help me sort out my own collection. They’re all just saved to my laptop and I never look at them.”

“How long have you been friends?”

I’m trying to figure out if she had access to the photo he took of Nina and the children. Tamsin appears oblivious, seemingly grateful that she’s off the hook.

“Oh, ages! We matched on a dating app a long while ago—don’t tell anyone, please—but we both agreed that there was no way. I mean...Greg. He’s just, well...Greg, don’t you think?”

I don’t trust myself to reply. Instead I give the leaflet further attention. The samples of Greg’s photos are of a bluebell wood in among shades of mauve, blue, green, purple and brown. An easel holding a canvas stands among the bluebells. A woman with long, dark hair, her back to the camera, is painting the woodland scene, capturing it perfectly. It is Nina’s unmistakable style.

I shiver. Is Greg about to go public with his affair with Nina? If so, it means he’s beyond caring and his threats are real.

The urge to see Christian is overwhelming. I tell Stuart that I need him to watch Jack while I go to a medical appointment alone. I catch a bus, which takes an age, but I enjoy staring out the window at the passing forest scenes with nothing to do and only myself to think of.