I have a good idea of the general day-to-day stuff, and I know that our mortgage costs us four hundred pounds a month. He has a company car, but my little runabout is on a lease, and he pays that too, with its insurance, MOT and tax. I cover the costs of my Vespa. What I earn from my job pays for our supermarket bills and our immediate needs, but not the Direct Debits or standing orders.

Beside me Toffee gets bored and curls up, makes a soft snuffling noise before burying his muzzle in his paws. I wish I could do the same. Outside a gust of wind sends pink blossom swirling. I lean over the monitor to watch the flurry drift on to the lawn, then sit down again with a thump. Toffee whines, confused.

‘Settle down,’ I say, and go back to my calculations.

Twenty minutes later, I push the chair back and weave my fingers through my hair. Ball park, our joint outgoings add up to a vast two and a half grand a month if I factor in everything I can possibly think of and add a hundred for contingencies. And that’s not counting the money Nick gives his parents. It’s amazing how much we spend without even thinking about it. We’re not extravagant – Lottie’s school is a state primary and we only have one foreign holiday a year – but there’s no way I can support us on my income alone.

‘Nick.’

I mutter his name without thinking, but unfortunately it has a galvanizing effect on Toffee, who jumps up and hurtles downstairs. I run down after him and find him quivering by the front door. I sink down beside him, pulling him into my arms.

‘Sorry, darling.’

I rub my cheek against his knobbly head. I try to picture Nick coming through the door, dropping his keys, calling out, bending to push an ecstatic Toffee out of the way. His image is frustratingly insubstantial. I’m having trouble picturing him without a photograph in front of me. How could that have happened so quickly?

And if he doesn’t come back? If he’s dead, if the police start looking at me? Maybe they are already. I think back to my meeting with Marsh; I didn’t get the sense he knew about my past. Maybe I’m safe, for now. I can imagine his eyebrows hitting the ceiling when he does find out.

I clasp my hands together and mutter into my knuckles, ‘Come home. Please, Nick. Come home.’

If he doesn’t, then they’ll take a closer look at me.

NICK

July 2000