Because this is the third time the woman has put her house on the market in the last twelve months, only to withdraw it again before Millie had the chance to get her foot in the door. She’s clearly reluctant to sell: I could see it in her face as she followed us around her house. Stroking marble countertops. Repositioning perfectly aligned blinds. She’s still in love with this house. Who wouldn’t be?

We all gravitate towards beautiful things.

Stacey needs to be coaxed, to be wooed, into giving up her home. She’s only going to let it go if she finds someone she thinks deserves it. Her fingers have to be prised gently from the house keys one by one.

The viewing went better than I could have hoped. Stacey was clearly impressed by my wife: she barely even noticed me. I expect Millie to be bubbling with excitement on the drive back home, but instead she’s unnaturally quiet.

‘Well?’ I say finally, as we turn off the Fulham Road. ‘How d’you think it went?’

‘Did you see the bruises on her arm?’ Millie asks abruptly.

I’m taken aback. I’d anticipated elation, Christmas-morning exuberance: a stream of excited ideas and plans and a brisk to-do list. Maybe even a thank-you for helping make it happen. Afternoon sex.

‘What bruises?’

‘On Stacey’s forearm. You must have noticed.’

‘Not really,’ I say, irritated.

Millie twists her left earring, her tell when she’s anxious. ‘It looked like someone had grabbed her wrists,’ she says.

‘Maybe someone pulled her out of the way of a bus,’ I say flippantly.

‘Did you notice how scared she looked when she mentioned having to talk to her husband?’

‘She didn’t look scared, Millie. She looked like selling a house is a decision a couple should make together. Not unreasonably,’ I add pointedly.

I turn into our road. A Prius is pulling out of a parking space a few houses down from ours, and I quickly nab the spot. I bought the new Audi as a gift for Millie’s fortieth birthday: she said it was a ridiculous extravagance, but to my mind there’s no point earning money if you don’t spend it. Business has been good recently, and as my mother used to say, there’s no pockets in shrouds.

‘The kids will be home from school soon,’ Millie says distractedly, as I unlock the front door. ‘Can you organise dinner? I have to work.’

‘Of course. The viewing went well, Millie,’ I add, trying to get things back on track. ‘We don’t want to count our chickens, but I’ve a feeling we’re going to get that house.’

My wife smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I follow her into the house. I have the oddest sensation I’ve just made a very bad mistake, and I’ve absolutely no idea why.

chapter 09

millie