“I know her, ok? I know how funny and smart and insightful she is. That’s enough for me. And she’s great with Lydia, not that you would notice that. Fuck what Mills thinks! That’s probably because of you anyway. You just don’t like her and I don’t know why, but I wish you’d leave her the fuck alone. She probably doesn’t want to take it any further with me because you’ve made her feel unwelcome. You had a scabby face on you all through dinner and every time she said something, you scowled at her.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Actually, I do know why you don’t like her. It’s because of the way she looks, isn’t it? It’s because she is hot and young and fit, and look at you!” He sneered at her. “You’re old, a has-been with no talent, a failing career and a fat arse. Do people even read your pathetic books anymore? If it wasn’t for your parents’ money and Dad funding you, you’d be nothing. No wonder you were so happy to marry Dad, the poor, sad fuck. He was so much better off with Mum.”

“Matthew!” Helen reeled at the hatred in his words.

Before she could say anything else, he stormed out of the room, leaving her with burning cheeks and reproach hanging heavy in the air.

*

Hugh leaned over Helen as she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair and smearing night cream into her rapidly ageing face. He smiled and kissed the top of her head, then disappeared into the bathroom. She could hear the water running as he brushed his teeth and she wanted to scream at him to stop wasting water, turn the bloody tap off while he was brushing, but she clamped down on the rant so hard that her jaw ached.

The gargling noise now coming through the door made her stomach heave.

He emerged, wiping his mouth with a towel that he then tossed aside, and went into the adjoining dressing room to set out his clothes for the next day. This from a man who owned three pairs of the same corduroy trousers for work, the same style of white shirt in duplicate, with a short sleeve version for the warmer summer months, and one suit for funerals. He reappeared in his sensible, button-down pyjamas and threw the cushions onto the floor from the bed. They scattered across the carpet until the room resembled a kid’s soft play area. Helen had to pick her way between them to reach the bed.

When she climbed into bed next to him, he had already turned on his side, his back to her. She reached for her book and started to read, then reread the sentences again.

She gave up, put the book down and said, “Darling, what do you make of Diana?”