“Take your hand off my arm, please,” she says as calmly as she can, turning around.

At the sight of her face, Paul flinches and steps back.

“You shut the car door on me last night, it caught my face. Then you hit me, remember?”

He frowns and looks away. Whether he remembers or not, she’s breaking a rule. He’s not used to her telling him what he’s done. “Where is she?”

She meets his eyes, playing for time. “Still no news. Eric is making a televised appeal today.”

“I meant Lina. I need my new golf trousers; she was letting them out. Mike’s collecting me for a round at the club.”

“I gave her the day off—wear something else.” Her heart is beating fast; normally she would never dare talk to him like that. She is feeling brave and terrified at the same time and continues to place sheets of drawings in her portfolio one by one, apparently unhurried.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Getting samples ready for a client to collect.”

“Dressed like that?”

His antennae are out; her mind races to stay a step ahead. “Of course not. I’ll change after the gym.”

“What about your face?” He sounds worried, but not for her; he’s never marked her so badly and is scared of the consequences.

“I’ve got excellent makeup, Paul. I’ve used it before.” She glances at the window. “Shouldn’t you be leaving? It’ll be dark in an hour.”

“The club’s floodlit,” he says, but he leaves the room and runs downstairs. She hears him rattling in the drawer in his study.

“Where are my keys?” he shouts.

As his feet thud upstairs again, she reaches for the keys where she left them on the chair and slides them into the back pocket of her jeans, just before he bursts back into the studio.

“Where are my sodding car keys, Melly?”

“How should I know?” She stands perfectly still, back against her desk, the keys wedged in her pocket. “I thought Mike was collecting you.”

“My golf clubs are in the car.”

“Your old ones are in the closet; you could take them instead. What time will you be back?”

He shrugs. “There’s a thing at the clubhouse later.” He walks to the window. “Mike’s late.” He taps his fingers on the sill. “Let me know if they find Sorrel.”

In a minute he’ll leave, then she will. They will never stand together in this house again. She will never lie next to him in bed. For a moment she feels dizzy, as if on a cliff top with endless space beyond the edge.

Outside, a horn sounds twice, then a car door shuts, footsteps approach the front door.

“Goodbye then.” He disappears swiftly without waiting for a reply; she hears the front door open and Paul greeting Mike, the clatter of golf clubs being pulled from the closet, followed by the slamming of doors.

He never usually says goodbye.

She piles jeans and sweaters into a large suitcase. The dressing table is bare as usual apart from a few photos: Paul grinning on their wedding day, absurdly handsome; she looks so young beside him, her smile so uncertain. She leaves that photo on the table and chooses two others: Izzy and Paul on a snowy slope, another of them in the sea. She places them between her clothes. Izzy will want them. She’ll want to spend time with Paul once the divorce comes through. “Divorce,” she whispers to herself, her heart beating fast. She puts Izzy’s clothes into a smaller suitcase, hurrying now, anxious to be off. What if Paul should return for something and catch her packing? She chooses a jar of face cream from her collection, abandoning the tubes of thick foundation. She puts the protesting cat in the carrier, then hesitates, looking around. The house is hard to leave after all. She hasn’t been happy here but it has sheltered her and Izzy. Lina too. She writes another note, scrawling quickly: