Moments later he is ducking in and out of traffic, his mind abuzz, gears raging, heading for the outer edge of Clifton and the Georgian house he cannot afford. He parks in the driveway and takes a nip of Dutch courage from the glove box. He’s pretty sure that if it was a problem with the pregnancy she’d be sounding hysterical. Instead her tone was at first anxious then coldly matter of fact. It’s either Amanda, he thinks, or something about the name change again. He waits for the whisky to settle his nerves then gets out of the car. The wind is blowing. As he strides towards the front door, he can feel clean air being sucked into him, the skin on his face taut and prickly with it. He raises a hand to his cheek and feels a warmth there that is not rain. From some distant place in his memory his mother’s voice says, Wipe those tears away and stop being such a baby. He brushes his cheek dry and strides towards the door which opens even as he puts a foot on the first step up. Veronica appears looking stony-faced. He moves in to kiss her cheek but she backs away. He knows then that the only way is forward, into whatever fate awaits.

‘You’d better come in and explain yourself.’ That chilly tone.

In the hallway he shakes the outside air from his coat and hangs it carefully on its usual peg, Veronica all the while standing before him, blocking his entrance into the kitchen, where they would usually do most of their talking. She has on one of her smart dresses, as if she has been to a meeting.

‘Let’s go into your study. You’ll see why in a minute,’ Veronica says.

Cullen hesitates. ‘Uh-oh, I’ve a feeling I’m going to need a glass of whisky,’ he says, doing his best to lighten the mood.

Veronica fixes him with a look of contempt.

Cullen feels himself rise to the bait and does his best to tamp his indignation. All my allies falling. Doesn’t a man have a right to expect his wife to be on his side? His head is pounding.

She turns and walks through the study door, the as-yet modest convexity of her belly catching the fabric of her dress.

‘Take a seat,’ she says, gesturing to the grey sofa where Cullen likes to catnap when he should be marking papers. He sits, expecting Veronica to follow suit. Instead, she walks around his desk and takes a seat in the leather chair as if this were a police interview and he the suspect.

‘If it’s about the man in the driveway, I’ve sorted it. He won’t be bothering you again,’ he says, doing his best to sound confident and alpha.