We get through a desultory supper, then Lottie finishes off her homework while I run a bath. Immersed in hot water, I let the tears dribble down my face. They tickle, and I blot them with the hot flannel. I feel as though I’ve let the enemy into my house. Cora is toxic, and Tim, a pussycat compared to his wife, tends to say what he thinks people want to hear. What do they hope to achieve, apart from making me feel stressed and defensive? I bend my knees and sink deeper into the water, holding my breath as my face is submerged. I keep my eyes wide open. The ceiling shimmers and dances. I come up again when my lungs start to strain. We lead such a normal life. It’s me and Nick, and Lottie and Toffee; it’s suppers together and walks in the park.

On Saturday afternoon he asked me to marry him, and that evening he went out and didn’t come back. Did he know what was going to happen? Maybe he did. Cora is right: why else would he have left Toffee behind? My head is swimmy from the heat. He must have been going to meet someone. I have a glass of wine beside me. I reach for it with wet hands and drink it slowly, letting reality sink in. Nick Ritchie has left his family in limbo, with no clue, no information, no signpost. One moment he’s here; next, he’s gone. He could have hired a car or caught a train or a plane. Oh shit. A plane. He could be out of the country. His passport. I almost go flying when I get out of the bath. I dry myself off, throw on the trackie bottoms that Nick thinks are hideous, a tee and a long cardigan and pad down to his study.

The large brown envelope containing our passports and birth certificates is kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. I delve inside. Three passports. I slump in the chair, not knowing whether what I’m feeling is relief or horror.

Nick’s screensaver is a photograph of me and Lottie on a near-deserted beach in Cornwall, towels wrapped hastily round us, faces still wet from the sea. I type in his four-digit passcode and the image disappears as I’m welcomed in.

Hello Nick

Most of Nick’s emails are work related, and I’ve seen them already. There are several from Evan from last week, trying to arrange a trip to the Queen’s Arms to watch next Saturday’s Chelsea match. But there’s something new. A message from an Alexander Wells.