So now, speaking to Michael, she noticed herself becoming tense, convinced he would make some demand and impinge on her hatching independence. He tended to ring every few days, usually on some pretext, such as the boiler playing up or the windows needing cleaning, which he had to share with her because, he kept reminding her, she still owned half of the Chelsea flat.

Or it might be to relay some gossip about one of their friends, a chat he’d had with Leo or Rex. It was almost, Romy thought, as if he hadn’t quite grasped that she’d left him, despite his spending the past year in the arms of the lovely Anezka, the Czech maître d’ at a restaurant off Fleet Street where many of the legal profession gathered.

‘Just checking in,’ Michael said. ‘Haven’t heard from you in a while.’

‘I’m fine. Nothing to report,’ she said, not choosing to point out that four days wasn’t exactly ‘a while’, but making it clear she was not in the mood for a gossip. She wondered, ridiculously, if her husband had somehow got wind of the text she’d sent Finch earlier, or yesterday’s walk. Michael always seemed to nose things out before anyone else – a useful knack in his line of work.

‘It must be lovely down there,’ Michael went on.

‘It is. Michael, I’m just about to go out. Is there something you want?’

‘Well …’ He seemed unusually hesitant. ‘I was hoping we could get together, have a talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Perhaps it’s time to consider our position, Romy.’

Heart fluttering anxiously, she asked, ‘What do you mean, “ our position ”?’

Michael was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘I was thinking about maybe getting on with a divorce.’

Romy was taken aback. It was fourteen months now since she’d left and even then there had been no official statement that they were separating. She had just moved out of the flat and not come back. More to the point, Michael had been brought up a Catholic – altar boy, First Communion – and, although lapsed since his twenties, he was, in principle, against divorce. Romy couldn’t imagine wanting to marry again, so it wasn’t a priority. And she had her sons to think of. But the word gave her a jolt, nonetheless.

‘Are you thinking of marrying Anezka?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Michael exclaimed, with convincing horror. Then he gave a short laugh. ‘Sorry, that sounded rude.’ He paused. ‘I suppose I just want to be clear about what’s going on between us.’ His voice was soft, uncharacteristically tentative.