He sniffed the air. ‘Mmm … Smells good,’ he said, with a tired smile.

‘Pork belly,’ she said. ‘Do you want a drink? There’s the remains of the Bordeaux from last night.’

‘Love some,’ Michael said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back earlier.’

She nodded. After so many years as his wife, she didn’t need yet another explanation about the pressures of being a top silk. She turned away. ‘I’ll bring it through.’ The letter was in her bag. She had read it on and off throughout the afternoon. But she’d put it away before Michael got home – like her own dirty secret.

As she poured red wine into the long-stemmed glasses, she realized she was almost shaking with nerves. The letter had taken on gargantuan proportions, acquiring a physical presence way beyond the single sheet of paper on which it was written.

Their sitting room was an elegant space, high-ceilinged and wide. Long windows gave onto a balcony that fronted the red-brick block of flats, the view looking down the length of the street opposite. Romy had kept the décor simple: a long sofa, lined with cushions, in pale tweed; two tapestry-chintz armchairs either side of the gas log fire; a heavy black lacquer coffee table on which stood a vase of yellow tulips; books on the wall by the door and ochre and blue curtains. Michael had seated himself in his chair to the right of the fireplace, head resting back on the cushion, eyes shut.

Romy placed his glass on the coffee table, keeping her own in her hands. Should I wait till after supper? she asked herself. But she knew she was just being cowardly. She turned abruptly and went to retrieve the letter. Arm outstretched, she handed the sheet of paper – no longer in its envelope – to her husband. ‘This came in the post today.’

Michael raised his eyebrows as he grasped the letter and began to read. It seemed to take him a very long time, longer by far than the short text allowed for. His expression did not change, remaining almost mask-like in its stillness, but she thought his olive skin paled.

Then he waved the sheet of paper in the air, shaking his head in apparent bewilderment. ‘This is ludicrous. I don’t understand. Who is this woman?’

‘I thought you’d know.’ Romy saw him blink rapidly, then his eyes returned to the page.

He looked up at her. ‘We have hundreds of kids doing work experience in chambers. How am I supposed to know which one this is?’ His tone was aggrieved.

‘Well, she gives the date.’

‘The date is irrelevant, Romy, because this is all complete nonsense. I’d never attack anyone.’ Michael flapped the letter angrily. ‘Thirteen years ago? I can’t remember that far back, for God’s sake, with all the people who trail through the place every day.’