‘Look,’ I said, ‘I genuinely hope you and Kyle manage to work things out. You’ve got those two lovely boys to think of. And now I’m afraid I really do have to go.’

So I was relieved on multiple fronts when the Porters pulled out of the sale. It meant our sale to the Conways was off, too, because the Glass House was the only reason we were moving in the first place. There should be no reason to come into contact with Harper again. We can safely turn the page. Disaster averted. All’s well that ends well.

Except Harper just won’t let it go.

My phone buzzes again beneath the menu. Obviously it’s unfortunate the Conways had already exchanged contracts with their own buyer before we told them the sale was off, but there’s not much I can do about it now. I’ve told Harper they’ll find somewhere else she likes just as much, but she still keeps calling.

Stupid of me. Stupid stupid stupid.

I’m jolted out of my self-flagellation when Felix Porter approaches my table.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says tersely.

He pulls out a chair and sits down, his long legs tangling beneath the wrought iron table as he shifts restlessly, trying to get comfortable in the tight space between the table and the concrete planter separating the café from the street.

‘I appreciate you coming,’ I say. ‘I know how—’

‘What’s this about?’

Not wasting any words, then.

It’s hard to know what to make of Felix Porter. He’s a good-looking man: probably pushing sixty, but trim and physically fit. When he walked into the café there was an imperceptible flutter among the women, a smoothing of hair and recrossing of limbs. He’s a bit of a cold fish if you ask me – he eyes the glass of white wine I ordered while waiting for him with evident disapproval – but there’s no denying he has a certain alpha magnetism about him, despite the permanent scowl.

‘What happened?’ I ask, gesturing to his face. ‘Don’t tell me: I should see the other guy?’

He touches the fresh bruise purpling his eye socket. ‘Kitchen cabinet,’ he says shortly.

There are livid red scratches on his wrists, too.

It’s no wonder the situation with the Porters pushes all Millie’s buttons. But I have a hunch their relationship is a lot more complicated – and a lot darker – than my wife thinks.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ I ask Felix, glancing around to catch the eye of a waitress. ‘Coffee or—’

‘Can we just get on with this?’

‘You got it. How are things at work?’

His expression tightens. ‘I’m trying to save the pensions of tens of thousands of people so they don’t end up on the streets in their old age,’ he says. ‘But thank you for asking.’