It wasn’t until early the following morning that he phoned.

‘Where are you?’ he demanded.

‘In Sussex,’ she said.

‘Without any discussion?’

‘I didn’t see the point.’

There was silence at the other end.

‘Romy,’ Michael’s voice, for the first time in months, sounded uncertain, ‘this is silly. You can’t just up sticks and leave like that, without even telling me why. I know we haven’t been connecting much recently but … what’s this really about?’

She didn’t reply for a moment. Where to start, without disparaging the whole thirty years they’d been together – without blaming Michael? She wasn’t even sure she was doing the right thing. All she knew was that she needed to get away from the stalemate, the deadness that shadowed the flat, the blank, disengaged stare of her husband.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

She wondered why he didn’t. Is he being deliberately obtuse? Or was he simply blind to what had been going on between them?

She heard him sigh. ‘Well, I’m not going to beg.’ More silence. Then, ‘I’ve got to go, I’m due in court. But I’ll come down at the weekend and we can talk properly. Sort things out.’ When she didn’t reply at once, he added, ‘OK?’

Romy took a deep breath. ‘Please don’t come, Michael.’ The line went dead.

11

Romy left Finch in the sitting room to go upstairs. She was tingling with the slow, tentative kisses that had begun soon after they were through the cottage door an hour ago, the wine and coffee she had promised entirely forgotten. She turned on the bedside light, surveyed the small bedroom and smoothed the duvet cover. She hadn’t come up to ‘slip into something more comfortable’ – her blue rayon dressing gown, apart from needing a wash and being a bit moth-eaten at the cuffs, would be a serious passion-killer. She wanted a breather, just a moment alone.

They had met, early evening, on the back terrace of the pub looking out over the harbour. The tables were much sought after in the summer when the weather was good, but tonight they’d had the place almost to themselves. It was early in the season and not particularly warm, but there was no wind, the spring sky cloudless, and both wanted to watch the sun sink behind the masts of the boats floating gently on the water.

The plan was to have supper. But in the end they’d just finished a bottle of cold blush rosé and picked at a plate of whitebait. There had been a quiet buzz between them. They hadn’t talked much, as if both were waiting. And finally she had got up and taken his hand. ‘I’ve got wine and coffee at home …’ she’d said.