‘Well … I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all. Why you chose it. I mean, I know you’ve been contributing here; you’ve been decent about that – about money and everything. But you’re hardly broke, Andy. Couldn’t you have found somewhere less …’

‘Less cheesy?’ He raises a brow.

‘Well, yes. You can’t stand the smell, can you? Remember the fuss you made about that fridge in Paris?’

‘I didn’t make a fuss—’

‘Come on. How come you moved in there? There are thousands of other places you could have rented—’

‘The thing is,’ he says quickly, ‘it wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing. It was literally a stopgap, just until we, um …’

‘Ah, right. Until Estelle left her husband and you could be open about things, and get a place together?’

‘Well, yes, I thought that was the plan,’ he murmurs, reddening.

I study his face. It still doesn’t make sense. ‘You still could’ve found somewhere a bit nicer, couldn’t you?’

A resigned look settles onto his face. ‘I’m really touched that you’re so concerned about my accommodation, Viv.’

‘Not concerned. More … curious, I suppose. Like I said, I remember how you were with that imaginary smell in Paris—’

‘It wasn’t imaginary!’

‘Andy, there was nothing there.’

He shakes his head. ‘If you say so.’ Then: ‘Okay, so I moved into the flat because it was vacant and I honestly thought I’d be there a month or so, no more than that.’ He looks at me. ‘It’s Estelle’s flat but it had lain empty for years.’

I blink at him. ‘Is the shop hers too?’

‘Yes, it is.’ He nods and rubs at his face. ‘She’s not actively involved – but it was her dad’s business. She inherited it and put a manager in.’

‘She’s not interested in it at all?’

‘It’s not really her thing,’ he says. And neither were you, I reflect, glancing at him as I sip my tea. At least, not enough for her to upend her comfortable life. I don’t feel sorry for him exactly. It just seems so foolish, so deranged, and so unlike the man I thought I knew. He always gave the impression that his decisions were the right ones: where to spend Christmas, or go on holiday; where we’d eat out, which wine we’d have. Cool, confident, successful Dr Flint, a man at the top of his game, always. The one who commandeered the barbecue and was the star of the monthly litter pick-ups, with the other women all fluttering around him. What a catch! was the general impression around here. But he’d got this one all wrong. She simply didn’t love him enough; at least, not as much as he’d thought she did.