When Rupert goes to work, I watch him walk briskly along the street in the direction of the train station, his coat pulled up around his ears against the March chill. In a few weeks it will be Easter, and I think back to last year, to Rupert getting down on one knee in front of everyone and the way I had felt just the tiniest flutter of panic before I said yes. Premonition, maybe? I wait until he is out of sight and then scan the road both ways, double-checking that no one (Caro) is lurking outside. The street outside is empty, but I close the blinds anyway before I head upstairs, my feet slowing as I approach the door to the spare room.

It makes sense to start in here, as Rupert had moved Caro’s things in before I’d even met him. Sitting on my feet, I pull out the shoeboxes that line the bottom of the closet, riffling through each one, but none of them contain anything other than shoes. I pull out drawers, dig beneath mattresses and even try Rupert’s desk, but there is nothing. There is no trace in the house, other than the wardrobe full of clothes, that Caro ever even existed, let alone lived here.

Sweaty and dusty – I did a much better job of cleaning the house than Anya has, that’s for sure, despite wrecking the marble tiles – I head downstairs for a glass of water, pausing as I reach the orangery doors. Rupert has closed them back up again, despite my leaving them open. Could there be anything in there? I push the doors open, marvelling again at the light that floods the room. Such a waste, not to use it.