The ‘cottage’ – if you ask me, it’s more of a mansion than a cottage – is stunning. Flagstone floors lead into a country-style kitchen, the kind I can imagine myself bringing up a huge brood of children in, and then out onto a terraced area, with a pool and a hot tub tucked away in the corner for privacy. I trail my fingers over the sharp, marble kitchen counters, slide off my shoe and dip my toe in the icy cold water of the pool, run my fingers over the fronds of the thick ferns that line the garden borders, eager to soak up every part of this stunning house. It’s not the sunshiny, scorching heat of Morocco or the Caribbean that I was craving, but this will definitely do. I turn to Rupert as he stands at the kitchen counter, wrestling the foil from a bottle of vintage champagne, and let a knowing smirk play across my lips.

‘Come on, then. You’d better show me what this bedroom looks like.’

The weekend is perfect. That’s the only way I can describe it. Away from the threat of the ringing telephone, the nectarine-scented air of the house, the memory of Lola’s tiny, broken body curled up in the driveway, I can push away the thought that Rupert lied to me, even if it was by omission. I tell myself that to keep this life we are living, I can look past the secrets he’s kept – that we all have things we don’t want others to know about – and I begin to relax, realizing that this is exactly how I wanted my married life to be. Rupert cooking breakfast as I sip coffee at the breakfast bar, a post-coital glow making both our cheeks turn pink, long walks in the damp, drizzly rain into pubs with roaring open log fires, good ale and hearty lunches, sitting in the hot tub under the stars, champagne glasses in hand as our breath streams out into the cold night air, matching the steam that rises from the water. It’s as we sit in the hot tub, Rupert’s thigh pressed against mine, that I broach the subject one last time.

‘We never did finish that conversation, you know.’ I sip at my champagne, the bubbles going to my head as the water heats me from my core.

‘Which conversation?’ Rupert leans his head against the padded cushion on the moulded seat and closes his eyes. Sweat trickles from his temple, running down the side of his face. It’s too hot in the water, but frost is already starting to glint on the surface of the terrace, and I can’t face getting out just yet.

‘The one about children.’

Rupert opens one eye to look at me, and then closes it again. ‘What about them?’