‘Hello, Mrs Hemlock.’ The voice was Home Counties. Some skinny thing with a scrawny throat and a ruffle-necked blouse who drank her tea from a cup and saucer and thought that young girls who seduced influential older men should be hanged from the nearest tree. ‘Your husband was in a meeting with the minister but I’m sure if it’s urgent …’

‘Quite urgent,’ I said, then tried to put a smile in my voice. ‘But I know how busy he is. I don’t like to trouble him but, well, it’s a personal matter.’ I dropped my voice a little and became her confidante; two wives gossiping over their hopeless husbands. ‘It’s a silly thing, I know, but, well … I could use some advice.’

‘Of course,’ she said, understanding completely. I don’t know what she imagined but it made sense in her world. ‘I’ll ask him to call as soon as he is available. I do hope you’re keeping well. Will we be seeing you at the gala in November?’

‘Thank you.’

I hung up the phone. Sat for ten minutes staring at the damn thing. I was cold again. I dashed upstairs and rummaged through the horribly sensible clothes that Cranham had insisted I accept as a gift when I was pregnant. I had to keep the baby warm, he said, as if he knew anything about what I needed. I never wore a stitch of his pre-approved garments. Wore my own clothes and revelled in my own tastes and wrapped myself in a blanket instead of giving in and doing as he suggested. God but I was a stubborn thing. Unexpectedly, none of that mattered any more. I just wanted to be warm. I slipped into some crisp turquoise-coloured slacks with a neat seam down the front and a black polo neck beneath a cream, chunky-knit cardigan. I had a glance at myself in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door and didn’t find the reflection too revolting. I looked a bit like a folk singer. Stefan would have laughed.

He called back forty minutes later. He sounded as he always did – flustered and shrill. He was constantly afraid I was going to tell him I didn’t want to do this anymore. Divorce would mean scandal and he had wed me with the sole aim of avoiding it.

‘Cordelia,’ he said, breathily. ‘Lovely to hear from you. Is all well?’

‘Fine. All right.’ I bit my lip. ‘I need a favour.’

He laughed at that. Taken aback, I suppose. He’d never heard me ask him for anything. All that I had, he had offered without demand.

‘Are you a little short?’ he asked. ‘I can wire the post office a money order for whatever you need. Are you getting the parcels?’

I closed my eyes. I felt sick. Hated being this pitiful, kept thing.