Now Romy felt the full weight of what seemed like a lifetime with Michael fall on her, like a heavy cloak. Their two boys, all the experiences they’d shared: the fun they’d had, the problems they’d weathered, the powerful love she had undoubtedly felt for her husband. No part of her wanted to go back, but she couldn’t help feeling the burden of the unfinished business between them. Unfinished business that – although Michael claimed to want clarity – continued to sit like a box stuffed in the attic. Ignored, but a constant presence above their heads.

‘If you want to go ahead, I’m fine with it,’ she said, her voice restrained.

Michael did not immediately reply and she wondered if he’d heard. When he did speak, she thought he sounded distinctly disappointed. ‘Oh, right … Well, we can talk about it when we meet. I’ll send some dates.’

After they’d said goodbye, Romy was slightly shaken. Was he testing me? she wondered. Trying to stun me with the reality of divorce – see if I still care for him? If he was happy in his relationship with Anezka – which her sons seemed to imply he was – then he should have sounded pleased, rather than disappointed. Whatever he’d meant, Michael, she realized, still had the power to unsettle her. She took a shaky breath as she silently mouthed those ink-black words: Even now, I sometimes have flashbacks that make me tremble and sweat.

4

‘That was superb.’ Finch sat back in his chair and gave her a grin of satisfaction.

‘It’s all you’re getting, I’m afraid,’ she said, smiling at his compliment – it had only been a modest pasta: spinach and mascarpone fusilli. ‘There’s Brighton Blue and grapes. I don’t do puddings.’

It was liberating not to feel the need to wade through complicated recipes for Finch and just do something she could cook with her eyes closed. Not because he wasn’t worth it. The evening had been so comfortable – really lovely, in fact – and Finch so appreciative of her efforts. But she remembered all those formal dinner parties she’d thrown for Michael, how they’d taken her all day to organize and cook and left her exhausted, with little appetite for being sparkling and witty with his clever colleagues from the judiciary.

Finch’s eyes widened in horror. ‘What? No chocolate and hazelnut roulade? No tarte Tatin? What will the village say when I spread the word?’

Romy started to laugh. ‘Probably confirm their worst suspicions that Michael left me because there weren’t three puddings on the table every night.’ Her face fell, his name casting a shadow. ‘Although it was me who left him,’ she added softly.

‘Cheese is perfect,’ Finch said diplomatically, as she reached across to clear his bowl. ‘Is it all right to ask why?’ he said after a minute, his tone cautious.