Rosie grabbed a towel from behind the bar and roughly dried him before going back upstairs. She eyed the empty swill bucket in the corner of her kitchen and pursed her lips. Snowy White’s unregistered piglet had lost out on a meal, but there had been a certain satisfaction in tipping it over Ron last night, and she hoped he’d learnt never to serenade her again while falling-down drunk – especially after being seen in Gloria Stevens’s pub.

Having put some food down for Monty, who began to gobble it as if he was half-starved, Rosie realised she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, so she made a cup of tea and stood by the window in her sitting room, to stare down at a deserted Camden Road. The shops were shuttered and locked, the windows of the flats above them blank-eyed with blackout curtains as the sea fret thickened and settled over the roofs in a smothering grey blanket.

The scene was desolate and reflected her mood, for after yesterday she’d come to realise that her relationship with Ron had reached a crossroads – and now she had the real dilemma of deciding what to do about it.

She could accept that he’d drunk too much yesterday – after all, there had been precious few occasions when he could be with his boys, and with Brendon leaving, it was understandable the drinking session had made him emotional. But turning up here causing a ruckus and declaring his undying love for her when he’d gone against her express wishes and chosen to drink in that tart Gloria’s place …

Rosie gave a deep sigh. She would usually have seen the funny side of it and sent him off with a flea in his ear, fully prepared to forgive him once he’d sobered up and apologised. But not this time – not when Gloria was involved. Things couldn’t go on as they were, for as much as she loved him, Ron had taken her forgiveness for granted once too often.

Her outing to the Officers’ Club with Henry had been a revelation, for she’d forgotten how good it felt to be treated as a lady. Henry had been an amusing, attentive lunch companion, asking her opinion on the menu and wine and never once overstepping the mark – so unlike Ron, who usually got into a conversation with an old pal and almost forgot she was there until he fancied a bit of slap and tickle when they got home.

The club itself had proven to be everything she’d expected, for the food had been excellent, the dining room elegantly decorated in muted shades of blue and white, the table laid with crisp linen, heavy silverware and beautiful cut glass. It had reminded her forcibly of the small private hotel her parents had owned during her formative years, for the atmosphere was calm and respectable, the clientele smartly dressed and sophisticated