I felt air brush my neck – Nick had followed me into the kitchen. ‘Isn’t it ready yet? Our guest will be hungry.’

Tears pricked my eyes as I opened the Aga door, still getting used to the way I could no longer bend at the waist. A bloody Aga! I’d never wanted that. ‘What was that about?’ It was risky, but I was too angry to let it go.

‘What?’

‘All that Suzi’s a drunk, Suzi stayed out late crap. I moved here, didn’t I? I haven’t been anywhere in months, have I?’

Nick looked at me, and for a second I almost didn’t recognise him. His voice was cold. ‘If you find it so hard to be here with me – your husband – then maybe you need to have a rethink about your life.’ I was so close to crying. I opened the Aga door again, just to hide my face. He said, ‘Serve it up soon, please, it’s late.’

A direct order. That was where we’d got to now. I removed the casserole dish, the steam scorching my face, and it was almost welcome. For a moment I thought about laying my wrist on the hot iron oven, just to feel something else.

You had gone. I needed to face it, now it had been so long, and not a word from you. I couldn’t be in denial any more. I was a married woman in my thirties and I’d been ghosted. A stupid, faithless woman. I shouldn’t have told you about the baby. I realised that now, but what choice did I have? You would surely have noticed at some point. So I’d done it, and you’d panicked. You had gone back to her, and I’d be stuck with Nick and my ruined life and a baby that probably wasn’t his. Of course, my vulnerability was also my trump card. Your child, your DNA, easy to prove. It almost took my breath away, how easily we can destroy each other, when we’re in love. If you weren’t coming back, I had two choices. Your phone number was not in service, I didn’t know where you lived, and my search of local hospital websites had not thrown you up. Either I tracked you down, made you acknowledge me, somehow found a way to forgive you for these weeks of silence. Or I moved to plan B. Making sure I never got caught.

As I ladled the cassoulet on to plates, mechanically running through a checklist – water, bread, vegetables, plates – I realised Nora had not come back from the bathroom. I slipped off the oven gloves and opened the door to the hallway. My studio door was ajar, and from the kitchen I could see Nora standing in it, looking about her with a slightly puzzled air. I called, ‘Did you get lost?’