She couldn’t. She’d always known that. But still, the thing that was between them, it did not go away, it did not die, it just kept getting hungrier and hungrier, and sometimes the sheer power of it, of knowing she would do anything for it, hit her like a wave. It was wrong. But sometimes that didn’t matter.

She’d forgotten why she was in the garden. It was dark, the lights switched off in the kitchen. Out here in the virtual countryside, the sky got very black. She was alone. Callum and Mike had wandered off in search of the loo, another drink, who knew what. She sat down hard on the patio table, bruising her coccyx. A few tears gathered in her eyes, self-pitying. Turned down by Bill – stupid, throwing herself at him like that – and dumped by Mike, all in one day. Forty-three, and her son almost grown, and nothing left to show for twenty and more years of waiting for Mike. The way he’d waited till they’d slept together before saying it. Listen, Karen . . . Putting his arm around Ali only minutes later, like nothing had happened. He hadn’t even showered since her body had been all over him; Ali wouldn’t let him.

She cried a little, in a loud animal way, through her mouth. The garden was so dark, full of rustles and sighs. She heard a noise then. Someone else stumbling on the lawn, and she was sure it must be him, and the relief made her sag and weep. He was back. It was OK. Her eyes were blurred and swollen, and it was so dark, and all she could see was the hand, the sleeve in the red jumper. She smelled his aftershave – she’d bought a bottle of it once just to remind her of him, though it was more than her budget for the week. She gave it to Carl but he didn’t wear aftershave, thought it was girly. And it wasn’t the same on his pale smooth skin. Not Mike. Not enough. Just . . . not him. But here he was now, and part of her might have thought, Thank God, I was right. Part of her might have been pleased he’d come back so soon, that he couldn’t do without her.