When he came to again, the sky was just beginning to lighten – he’d forgotten to close the shutters. Sunrise was around seven forty-five at this time of year and he thought it was probably an hour off, at least. So he lay on his back, eyes shut, and began to drift off again. Then he sat bolt upright in bed. The email.

Yanking the lid of the laptop open, he clicked on his account. Will she have seen it yet? He couldn’t work out the time difference in his dozy state. But the email was still sitting in the outbox, undelivered – the connection to the ranch’s erratic Wi-Fi obviously lost.

Finch stared at the screen, then opened the email and read it through. He could remember writing it, but he was unclear, this morning, as to what he’d actually said. No, he thought, cringing at the melodramatic prose. He deleted it quickly, then closed his eyes and groaned, muttering a silent thank-you to the universe for sparing him a terrible embarrassment.

43

‘Happy birthday.’ Romy pulled back the curtains in Michael’s room with a strained smile. As usual, she’d heard the low murmur of the television and knew he’d been awake for some time. But she’d held off going in, the thought of the day ahead making her feel tired before she’d even started. Leo had arranged interviews at the flat with three more potential live-in Daniel replacements – the first crop totally unsuitable ‒ and she knew she was now in the mood to hire the first person who walked through the door, even if he or she had two heads.

They had been sitting, subdued, opposite each other at the kitchen table again, with their porridge and coffee the previous morning ‒ days after Michael had made his confession ‒ when he’d apparently come to a decision.

‘I know I behaved badly with Grace,’ he began, his good hand roughly rubbing the weaker one on the tabletop, his eyes fixed on her own. ‘She was so young, and I was married to you … I was ashamed of myself. But I really need you to understand, Romy. Her version of events is just plain wrong.’

Romy, returning his stare, thought she could, indeed, detect the shame in his eyes. It spoke to her in a way his words – still hedged about with equivocation – could not. But she found her anger rising.

‘You lied to me, Michael. For years.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I know and I’m really sorry. I was terrified, Romy. Admitting to something so shameful? I thought everything would erupt. I’d lose my career, lose you, lose the boys’ respect …’

Romy almost laughed at the order in which Michael categorized his potential losses, his career always number one. ‘You did lose me, because you lied.’

She caught the flash of scepticism on her husband’s face.