Christmas drew ever closer. The lights and noise of town, they dazzled me as I walked through the centre of Guildford once again. I’d had enough money hoarded to pay for this trip without asking Nick, and even that small taste of freedom made me realise how trapped I was. I wandered from shop to shop, drunk on lights and music and things. The sheer overwhelming tide of stuff we were supposed to want or need. I’d always loved this time of year, and had even fantasised about a country cottage with holly round the door, twinkling lights in the eaves, candles in every window. Snow piled up round the gables. Now I had it, and the reality was cold and isolating. I couldn’t imagine Nick and I on Christmas morning, exchanging gifts, clinking glasses (non-alcoholic for me; the fact of it being Christmas would not mean I could have a sip of champagne). And in later years, a child leaping on to our bed, hyper with excitement. I just couldn’t picture it. Maybe fear was clouding the future. One word from Nora and I’d lose everything. But why hadn’t she said anything yet? Why become friends with me, encourage me to talk about how much I’d loved you? I didn’t understand what her plan was, and it scared me. Was it even her behind the strange happenings, the music, the dead rabbit?

I’d barely slept the night before, thinking of Nora across the road from me. Your wife. A large part of me didn’t really believe it. I was learning that I was good at that, denial.

Dr Holt was early, dressed in jeans and a nice navy shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He stood when I came into the Costa Coffee, pulled a chair out for me. Polite. ‘Hello again.’

‘Hi. Sorry that last time we met I was . . . well, a total mess.’

He waved it away. ‘You’d had a shock. I’m just sorry you had to find out that way.’ He asked what I’d like to drink, and despite my protests went to get it for me. I chose something laden with sugar and spices, a bucket of festive joy, hoping some of it might creep into my cold winter bones. I watched him chat with the young barista, the open friendliness of the doctor’s face. If only I was married to a man like that. Not one like Nick, so suspicious and critical. Or you, as slippery as a water snake.

‘Thank you.’ I drank too fast, burning my tongue, a flood of sweet chocolate filling my mouth.

‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ he asked.

I didn’t know where to begin. ‘It was just – it was so weird, wasn’t it? Sean – Patrick, I mean – using your name like that.’