‘I’ll be alright,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. What was my alternative? I knew that if I kept running, kept hoarding my secrets, I would turn out like Nora. And I didn’t want that. I wanted to start my life again, with the truth this time.

Awkwardly, he said, ‘If you . . . if you need a place . . . Suzi, you wouldn’t have to be alone. OK?’ For a moment, we both stared ahead, out at the swirling snow. My mind rejected what he was saying, if indeed he was saying it. I couldn’t think about that now. All the same, it felt like a wrench to tear myself out of the warm car, and go out into the icy dark alone.

‘I’ll talk to you soon, OK?’ But would I? I’d no idea what might happen tonight.

‘Will you let me know you’re alright? It’s silly, but I feel responsible now. How’s the baby?’ He looked tenderly at my bump.

‘Kicking like mad.’

‘A good sign. Take care, Suzi.’ And he went.

The snow was a worry. Nothing else could go wrong, because I had plans. When Nick got home that night, I would be ready for him. I had showered, washing out the smell of the nursing home, and brushed my hair, but put on no make-up. I wanted Nick to see me, finally, as I was. I had cooked a simple meal, one that could be eaten cold if discussions went on all night, as I imagined they would. Boiled potatoes, salad, ham. I didn’t light the lamps or candles, but sat waiting for him in the stark overhead light of the living room. It was time for us both to face reality.

I heard a car outside, and my heart turned over. Footsteps on the gravel. I had half-hoped for some last-minute reprieve, that he’d work late again, but no, Nick was home. It was time.

I heard his footsteps in the hallway, and the sound of his shoes being taken off. A clear of the throat. I waited, holding my breath.

He poked his head into the living room. ‘What are you doing? Why isn’t there—’

‘There is dinner,’ I pre-empted him. ‘Everything is done. But it’ll have to wait.’ I summoned all my courage, which I had learned was so very meagre, and got ready to crack the thin glass between us, the pretence of being just alright that could have carried us through the next fifty years if I’d let it. I said the fateful words that can end a marriage, the pebble-roll that tips off the avalanche. ‘Nick. We have to talk.’