There was no word from Finch all day, even though she’d texted, asking him to ring when he had a chance. Romy could not help feeling rejected, however childish she knew that to be. She had been so looking forward to seeing him. But later that evening, as she sat with a bowl of tomato soup and her second glass of red wine – still nothing from Finch – she couldn’t shake the feeling that something really wasn’t right. By the third glass, she was reaching for her mobile to call him and find out. It went to voicemail and she didn’t leave a message.

It was early afternoon on Sunday – Romy having all but given up hope of hearing from him – when her mobile pinged with a terse text: Can I come over?

30

The expression on Finch’s face when she opened the cottage door was fixed like stone. Romy was taken aback. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week, the circles beneath his eyes slate-grey and pronounced in his tanned face. But worse than that, his normally kind brown eyes regarded her warily.

‘Hi,’ he said, making no move to kiss or embrace her.

She stared at him, stepping back so he could enter the house before her, then closing the door. The atmosphere in the sitting room was heavy and still. Finch stood, arms crossed, in front of the empty wood-burner.

Romy frowned. ‘You look awful.’ She did not sit either, and they faced each other across the length of the coffee table in silence.

Suddenly his fierce demeanour crumpled and he covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh, Romy. This is so terrible. I don’t know how to tell you.’

Heart bursting, she crossed her own arms tight across her chest, trying, somehow, to still the cold panic rising through her body. What on earth?

Finch took a loud, rasping breath and began to pace up and down the small space by the stove. Then, as quickly as he’d started, he ground to a halt and faced her again, his look determined now, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘It’s Grace.’

Romy said nothing. Neither did Finch, for what seemed like an eternity.

‘Right … Start from the beginning,’ he said finally, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I was telling her about you, and she seemed happy for me. Her only worry was that you weren’t divorced from Michael yet, and had gone back to look after him … She thought I might be being a mug.’

‘I’d probably think the same,’ Romy said.

Finch didn’t seem to hear her, just twitched at her reply as if it were a passing fly.

‘But then I told her more about you and mentioned Michael, used his full name.’ He stopped and eyed her, as if this fact held some significance. But Romy didn’t get it.

‘So?’