As the word Glade left his mouth, Bess felt her intestines shrink. Her tongue felt large and dry and she thought she might vomit. Her hands were now trembling violently, so she sat on them. She pictured the smiley girl who had waved – of course . . .

‘M— Mario,’ she began, but he quickly cut her off.

‘No, Bess!’ He held up his hand, and she saw the pulse of tension in his lower jaw. ‘Just for once, you will let me speak!’ he said firmly, not shouting exactly, though in a way she might have preferred it. His tone was menacing and the quake of fear through her bones was something she had never, ever experienced or been able to imagine with reference to her husband.

‘She called Julie to say she’d seen you, recognised you from the five-a-side barbecue, and wanted to know if it was a special occasion for us. She was going to send a complimentary bottle of champagne to the room, which I thought was nice.’ He gave a short, sharp snort of laughter. ‘Julie told me when I went in to hand in my timesheet.’

‘Mario . . .’

He gave her a second, a small window of opportunity in which to speak, to say the magic words that would explain her presence at the Glade, but not only did such words not exist, there wasn’t enough time. She couldn’t form a sentence, couldn’t think what to say or how to say it. Questions screamed inside her skull: Why did you go? Why did you do that? Look what you’ve done!

‘I laughed. I laughed at Julie and told her to tell her nosey daughter to be sure of her facts in future, because that kind of talk and that kind of suggestion could be damaging. And she apologised. She’s a sweet lady, quiet, and I thought she was going to cry. I’ll have to apologise to her tomorrow.’

‘Mario,’ she tried for the third time, and again he silenced her with his words.