Michael did not respond to the bell, so she let herself in. He was in the sitting room, asleep, his shaved head lolling against the chair back, mouth yawning open. He looked so thin and frail that she had to remind herself of the conversation she’d just had with James. He opened his eyes as she approached and smiled.

‘Hi, Romy … What are you doing here?’ he asked, rubbing his hand over his face to wake himself up.

She sat down in the other armchair. ‘I’ve just had lunch with James.’

‘Oh?’ He looked surprised.

She hesitated. She needed to get this right, not leave any loophole through which her lying husband could slip. ‘I wanted to talk to him about Grace.’

The shutters instantly went up on Michael’s face. He knows what’s coming.

‘He told me everything, Michael.’ Romy spoke as firmly as she was able, her body like jelly, her breath catching as she waited for him to set off on his usual slippery, twisting mitigation for his behaviour.

But his expression hardened. ‘Everything?’ Michael gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Is he dying or something? Wanting to clear his conscience?’

‘It’s not his conscience I’m concerned with.’

He looked defiant for a moment, then his features slumped and he raised his good hand in a gesture of defeat. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Romy. I have nothing more to say.’

She knew there was a massive well of anger deep inside that one day she would need to address, in order to stop it poisoning her soul. But she couldn’t access it now. All she felt, as she gazed at her damaged husband – on whose integrity she had so vehemently insisted – was an overwhelming pity.

She got up. ‘You’re a lucky man, Michael. That reputation of yours, which you value above all else, seems set to remain untarnished. It’s more than you deserve.’ Although Romy did not consider her husband lucky, not at all.

Michael clearly didn’t either, because he harrumphed, made no reply. He was struggling to get out of the chair now, his face taut with effort. ‘Need a pee.’

Her phone rang: Leo. She waited for Michael to leave the room before clicking on the call. Then found she couldn’t speak, her throat closed with tears.

‘Mum?’

Swallowing hard, she said, ‘Hi, sweetheart.’

‘You sound rough.’

‘Just a bit of a throat thing.’

‘Poor you. Are you at home?’

‘No, I dropped in to see your father.’

‘Great, how is he?’

‘He’s fine.’

‘Good. I’m calling about Lucy. It’s her thirtieth next week. She doesn’t like fuss, but I thought it might be fun to go out, have a celebratory meal together somewhere. I wanted to ask if you thought Dad might be up for it.’

‘Right …’