The first time he offered to cook for her, he sent an email asking for a list of her favourite foods. When she arrived at his house, he had filled his fridge with her most decadent choices. Throughout their twelve-year marriage, he’d often bought her books he thought she might enjoy, or a portion of tiramisu from the Italian deli near his office, or a tub of fat olives or expensive red wine. Postcards and unusual artwork, and once, a vintage record player with a box full of seven-inch singles. But for the last few days, he’d spoken to her in a mechanical fashion, stripped of emotion.

Perhaps the pressure of work was getting to him. For all his affability, he was not one to discuss what was bothering him, preferring to work through any issues on his own and waiting until he was sure about his facts. Maybe he was concerned about money. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet, but she’d made a substantial amount at the kitchen table that morning, selling some shares. Christmas was an expensive time of year. The news might lighten his load.

But, in truth, there was no need for Edward to leave the house that afternoon, and yet he had.

The porch light picked out his boot prints as they tracked down the path and through the open gate. Catherine hesitated, uncertain about leaving Honor alone. But her daughter was in her bedroom, glued to her mobile phone, and would barely notice she’d gone.

Determined to repair whatever was wrong, she zipped up her old garden coat and followed her husband. Perhaps the open skies and fresh air would allow them to explore the dusty corners of their relationship, away from the confines of home and parenthood.

The village was deserted, the weather driving families indoors. His stride was longer than hers, and she had to stretch to place her own boots inside the prints left by his. She reached the end of the lane and turned right without checking because that was the way to the corner shop. But the snow was unmarked, and when she looked around, she noticed his boot prints were leading down to the river.

She set off in the same direction.

The trees were thicker on the towpath, and they bent towards her, bowing in deference. A water vole darted out from under a bush, heading towards its burrow at the river’s edge. The Blackwater, sluggish and inky, might freeze tonight, the forecasters said. It hadn’t done that for years.