She didn’t answer, stung by his jibe. She had been a dedicated mother, an accomplished hostess, a loyal wife and a valuable asset on his arm as he had climbed up through the network of the judiciary. The fact that none of these roles attracted an actual salary was not her fault.

She had done random office work in the early days, but the jobs she had been really interested in – and for which her environmental degree qualified her – involved working in the countryside, studying the natural world. But Michael had wanted to be in London and, as he frequently pointed out, he was the one earning the money to support the family.

Michael had covered his face with his hands – a familiar gesture when he was tense or upset. When he raised his eyes to hers, he said, ‘Be honest, Romy. You owe me that at least.’

Romy had taken a deep breath. ‘OK, well, we never talk. We don’t eat together, or hang out. You work twenty-four/seven … The boys have gone.’

He nodded slowly, although she didn’t know if this signified his agreement, or was just an acknowledgement that he’d heard her.

‘That’s the situation as it stands,’ he said evenly, ‘but I’m still waiting for the reason it became as bad as this between us.’

She felt like a rabbit in the headlights. The letter hung like a flashing neon sign between them. She wasn’t going to be the one to mention it, but could he honestly pretend it wasn’t a valid reason? The valid reason?

Michael turned away, his mouth set in a tight line. He looked strained, tired, Romy thought, as she watched and remained silent. The room seemed to freeze-frame as they faced each other, their bodies rigid with tension, their lives halted on the brink.

‘OK,’ he said, taking a deep breath, his energy apparently restored. ‘I’ll say it, if you won’t.’ He stood, legs apart, in a dominating stance, his arms crossed. He only needs his wig and gown, she thought. ‘You believe the letter that woman sent you. You think I’m a sexual predator. You perhaps even worry that I’ve done it more than once. You no longer trust me.’ He stopped, stared at her. ‘Have I left anything out?’

Romy winced. The coldness in his voice was like a stab to her heart. I want you not to be that man in the letter so badly it hurts, Michael, she longed to say. So why won’t you at least try to make me believe? But she knew, for whatever reason, that he would not.

What she actually said was, ‘What am I supposed to think, when you won’t talk about it?’