Michael nodded. ‘Did she say she’d come?’

‘I don’t know. But you can have your mobile tomorrow and call her yourself.’ She remembered the nurses’ advice that they shouldn’t mollycoddle Michael. He was right-handed, thank goodness, and he could surely work a phone now. She hoped Anezka would answer, for a change, and tell Michael the truth, dispel, once and for all, the notion he clung to that she still cared.

He frowned but said nothing as his eyes closed. Romy held her breath, hoping he would fall asleep. It was chilly, sitting there in her thin dressing gown. Her feet were freezing and she was dying to get back to bed. But as she waited, watching her husband’s face, she realized she felt almost wary of the figure lying there. She had not watched Michael asleep in this bed for a long time. Not since he’d decided to move into the spare room in order – she was certain – to avoid seeing the words of the letter printed in her eyes. Now, as she sat on in the semi-darkness, her thoughts started to take an involuntary trawl through those months before she had left, eventually arriving at what had been – in her eyes – the last moment of their marriage.

It was a nervy, unresolved ending. Romy was so frightened of Michael’s superior debating skills, his ability to twist what she said into something ridiculous, that she had made every effort to avoid any discussion about why she had gone, specifically asking him not to come down to the Sussex cottage in the weeks after she’d left.

But before nine one morning, as she walked slowly back from buying a croissant at the village deli – enjoying the warm spring sunshine, the peace and quiet around her – she’d seen his car parked in the lane. She had felt her heart squeeze and her breath trap somewhere high in her throat. No. She just wanted to run.

Michael was sitting calmly on the sofa. ‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ he said cheerily, as if there was nothing untoward between them, as if he’d arrived early for a planned weekend together. When he registered the lack of welcome on her face, however, the mask slipped. She saw hurt in his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet.

She didn’t speak and, for a moment, neither did he. Then he’d said, ‘I’m baffled, Romy. Thirty years of marriage and you just walk away without a single word? What am I supposed to do now?’

She had tried to control her thumping heart. His coiled energy was palpable, almost menacing in its restrained power.

‘What you always do? Work,’ she said eventually, hearing the crack in her voice.

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ He glanced around. ‘It’s paid for your lifestyle … this cottage.’