“You only think that because you believe I’m wrong, deluding myself, and that Greg was unfaithful to me.”

“You’re never going to find out what happened,” he said wearily.

I should have kept a tally of how many times that had been said to me. “I trust him,” I said. “That’s enough for me. The toast is burning, by the way.”

AT SUNDAY LUNCH with Joe, Alison and one of their three children, Becky, who had her father’s blue stare, her mother’s pallor and reticence, I repeated what I’d said to Fergus. It was harder in front of three people. I sounded forced and overinsistent. I saw Joe’s shoulders sag, and I saw him throw a helpless glance at Alison before he turned to me, a lettuce leaf dangling from his fork. “Sweetheart,” he said.

“I know what that means,” I said. “Sweetheart. It means you’re going to tell me very patiently why you think I’m behaving in a wrong-headed and self-destructive way. You’re going to tell me I’ll never find out the truth and must learn to live with that uncertainty and move on. And probably you’ll tell me this is a form of grieving.”

“That’s pretty much it, yes. And that we love you and want to help in any way we can.”

“Do you want to put the kettle on, Becky?” Alison said, in a mild tone. “I’ll get the cheese.”

“You don’t need to be tactful, Alison.” I smiled at her. “We’ve known each other too long and too well for that. It’s fine. I’m fine. Really. I just thought you should know that Greg wasn’t being unfaithful.”

“Good.”

“It would be better if someone believed me.”

THE MAN STOOD on my doorstep, barely visible behind the battered wooden rocking chair he was holding.

“Terry Long,” he said. “I’ve got the chair for you.” He looked at me expectantly.

“I don’t—” I began.

“For my wife. It’s her Christmas present. You said you’d repair it for us. It’s a bit of a mess, as you see. It was her grandfather’s, though, so it has sentimental value.”

“There’s been a mistake.”

“I called you at the beginning of September. You said it would be fine.”

“Things have changed,” I said. “I’m not taking on new work.”

“But you said . . .” His face had hardened. He put the chair on the ground, and it rocked gently between us, making a clicking sound. One of its runners was badly damaged. “You can’t just let people down like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s it? You’re sorry?”

“I’m very sorry. I just can’t. I really can’t. I’m sorry.” I kept repeating the word: sorry, sorry, sorry. In the end he went, leaving the broken chair behind. Even his back looked angry.