IT TAKES ME FORTY minutes to get home, running most of the way. By the time I arrive, dripping sweat and panting, it’s one o’clock. For the first time since we moved here, I’m grateful for the wooden bench Adam bought for our small front garden—to make it more than simply a patch of grass between the house and the road, he said when I asked what the point was. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to spend time sitting in front of my house when I had a lovely back garden to sit in that was completely private.

I’d like some privacy now, but not as much as I’d like to put an end to the pain in my aching legs. I stagger toward the bench, unable to stay on my feet for the last three or four meters to my front door.

What kind of idiot am I, thinking I can lie to the police and get away with it? They could turn up any second, and my car still has two side mirrors.

I land in an awkward position on the bench and have no energy to improve upon it. Several of my neighbors will be watching me, for sure—standing well back from their windows to remain out of sight. They’ll wonder why I’m wearing a smart summer dress and strappy sandals if I’ve been for a run, and why I took a large handbag with me.

Fortunately, I’ll never have to explain because no one will ask. That’s the kind of place Bartholomew Gardens is. Its inhabitants see everything, but pretend to see nothing.

I look around at the still, silent cul-de-sac, shaped like a perfect question mark: sixteen square, beige-brick detached houses, all with shiny black front doors and double garages built on. It still doesn’t feel like home: the street, the house, Spilling, the Culver Valley. I’m starting to think it can’t and never will: part of my punishment.

I wish we’d never come here. I wish we could move back to London, but I daren’t suggest it to Adam. What reason would I give? He’d have to ask work for another transfer—a return trip—or look for a new job . . .

No.

Other people, when they realize things they want are impossible, stop yearning for them. Why can’t I be like them? Why can’t I ever give up on anything?

Hearing a car, I stiffen, but the noise soon dies away. Whoever’s driving, their destination is not my house; their mission is not to catch me out.

OK. The police aren’t here yet. This means I have a chance to make my lie true. I need to sort that out before I check my Hushmail. There’s a clear order of priorities that even I’m not stupid enough to ignore.