‘You mean you enjoyed giving Veronica Leighton a thrashing.’ His face was full of anger. ‘I can’t believe how irresponsible you’ve been, Evelyn.’ He flung back the sheet, got out of bed, and left her room.

Evie stared at the closed door, misery swamping her. Never mind two steps forward, one step back, with Doug it was one forward and three back. No matter how hard she tried, she always came up short as far as her husband was concerned. And the one special card, the last ace in her pack had been played, and the game was lost.

She asked herself was he right? Had she taken an undue risk? She hadn’t fallen, hadn’t overtired herself. And the doctor had said exercise was not only harmless but beneficial. She remembered the vicious retaliatory shot Veronica had sent her way, smashing the ball into her ribcage. It could just as easily have struck a little lower and put her unborn child at risk. Her hands moved protectively over her belly. There was no sign yet of her pregnancy, no swelling evident. She lifted her nightdress and looked down at her ribs where already a purplish tinge was spreading. What an idiot she had been. Just a few inches lower and she might well have lost the child. Anger at herself – and at Veronica Leighton bubbled up inside her to mix with a growing sense of remorse.

She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and went across the room to the door. Moonlight flooded the landing as she crept along it towards the master bedroom. She eased the door open only to find it was deserted, the bed untouched. A cold fear clenched her stomach. Had he gone? Returned to Batu Lembah? Abandoned them at Christmas. Tears rose involuntarily and she cursed her own stupidity. She should have waited to tell him until the memory of the tennis match had faded – or had the good sense not to play in the first place. It was her own fault. She had been playing fast and free with her marriage and the life of their unborn child. An overwhelming desire to wind back the clock, to relive and reorder the past day, swept through her, only to be replaced by a heavy oppressive sadness. She had messed things up badly. And how would she break the news to Jasmine that her father wouldn’t be with them at Christmas?

About to return to her bed, although certain she couldn’t sleep, she heard a sound downstairs, a chinking of glass. Was he still here? She tiptoed down the staircase and across the hall. Her husband was standing framed in the open French window, looking out onto the moonlit lawn, a whisky in his hand. Relief washed over Evie.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she moved across the room and went to stand beside him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Really sorry. I’ll go and see the doctor again straight after Christmas and make sure everything’s all right.’