Jonathan found himself working on the morning of his birthday, at St. Anne’s; he was only on call, but at ten o’clock one of his mothers went into premature labour and he had to go in.

“Ladies shouldn’t have babies on your birthday, Daddy,” Daisy said indignantly.

“I know, sweetheart, but as you’ll find out for yourself one day, babies don’t always arrive very conveniently. I’ll try not to be long.”

They were all excited. Once Jonathan and Laura had left for supper with the Edwardses, the children-and Helga-were to move into action: admit the caterers and the florist, explain where everything had to go… and then receive the guests as they arrived, show them where to hide (in the darkened conservatory). Helga was to telephone the Edwards house at eight, and ask Jonathan and Laura to come home, to say that there had been a power cut and she didn’t know what to do (thus explaining the unlit house when they arrived).

It was hard to see what might go wrong.

Abi was driving back from Bristol when her phone rang. At last! William! She pulled into a side road, took the call. Dear William. How sweet he was.

“Abi? This is Jonathan.”

It was made much worse by his not being William, by being thrown back into a different, uglier life; it really hurt her, shocked her even.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’d heard about the lorry driver. That his windscreen had been shattered. That’s why he veered across the road. So there won’t be any charges of any kind.”

“Yes. Yes, the police did tell me.”

“Good. So that draws the line very neatly, I think. It’s over. The whole ghastly nightmare.”

“I don’t suppose the lorry driver thinks that. Or the man whose wife was killed. That is such a typical thing for you to say. ‘I’m all right, so everything’s all right.’ Pure bloody Jonathan Gilliatt.”

There was a pause; then he said, “That was an extraordinarily unpleasant remark.”

“Oh, really? Maybe you don’t inspire pleasant conversation, Jonathan. How’s Laura?”

“Laura is fine.”

“Did you ever… ever have to confess about me?”

“That’s nothing to do with you.”

“I think it might be, actually,” she said, rage and pain rising up to hit her. Here he was, doing it again, putting her in the box marked, “Rubbish,” set well apart from his real life, as no doubt he saw it, with his perfect wife and perfect family.

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

He sounded wary. Well, good.

“I mean that of course it’s to do with me. I’d quite like to know, actually, if she knows about us. Or if you’ve managed to sweep me under the carpet, pretend I never existed. I’m not sure why, actually, but it matters to me, where I stand in Laura’s life now.”

“And what’s it to you one way or the other?”

“If you can’t see that, Jonathan, then you really are even more stupid than I thought,” she said, wondering why he could still hurt her so much. “Because she ought to know there’s something rotten in her marriage, that it’s not quite the perfect thing she imagines, that she’s got it, and you, horribly, horribly wrong, poor cow.”

“Abi,” he said, and the venom in his voice quite frightened her, “you have no right to talk about Laura and my marriage.”

“Well, I think I do, actually. You dragged me into it. You had everything-perfect bloody life, with a wife and children-and still you chose to fuck around with me. Not my idea, Jonathan. Yours. And then… then you have the fucking nerve to tell me your marriage is nothing to do with me.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “My marriage is mine, mine and Laura’s…”

“And pretty unsatisfactory, I’d say, judging by your behaviour.”

“How dare you say that to me?”

“I dare because it’s true.”

“It is not true.”

“Well, I think Laura might see it rather differently.”

“Abi,” he said, “you even think about coming near me and my family, and you’ll regret it horribly.”

“Of course I’m not coming near you and your family. Why should I?”

“Because you’re rotten enough. Disturbed enough even, I’d say. You have considerable problems, Abi. Personality problems. Maybe you should take a look at yourself, rather than throwing accusations at other people. Anyway, I have to go. I had intended to have a perfectly pleasant conversation, reassuring you that you had nothing more to worry about. You’ve made it very unpleasant, predictably enough. Pity.”

And the phone went dead.

Abi sat there for quite a long time, staring at her phone; she no longer felt angry, just rather tired and drained. And then the pain began. It was awful, the worst she could ever remember. She had never liked herself; in that moment, she loathed herself. She kept hearing Jonathan’s voice telling her she had personality problems, that she was rotten, possibly even disturbed, and she found herself agreeing with him. She was indeed absolutely rotten; she was amoral, promiscuous, dishonest. And all right, he had pursued her, but she had at no time refused him; she had encouraged him, enjoyed him, despised his wife, dismissed his family. She was a completely worthless person; she had no right to expect decent treatment from anybody.

She had been conducting a relationship with a man who was quite simply good, transparently nice and kind and honest; how could she have possibly thought that could work? That he could want to be with her if he knew even a little about what she was really like?

She deserved never to see him again. She never would see him again. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved rotten people, rotten like her. Rotten like Jonathan.

He’d strung her along very nicely. But… God, she had let him. That was one of the most humiliating things. Allowed herself to believe him when he told her she was special, hugely intelligent, that he enjoyed her company quite apart from the sex.

She’d been hurt by a great many men, but Jonathan had won the game easily. He had demanded a great deal of her-and not only since the crash-and had given her no support, shown her no concern, offered her not a shred of kindness, merely bullied and threatened her. And had abandoned her totally, without pity or thought. She hated him beyond anything…

William had spent a wretched day. He had shot into the kitchen at breakfast time, grabbed some bacon and a slice of bread and made himself a sandwich, filled a thermos with coffee, and headed out for the farthest point he could: East Wood, a six-acre spinney. He was felling some of the younger trees; it was exhausting and noisy, and made thought fairly impossible. He didn’t want to think. It hurt too much.

Abi made her decision almost without realising it. She felt more positive suddenly, and that she needed to see this thing finished. Properly, formally, unarguably finished.

She dialled his number. It was on voice mail. His smooth, actory tones told her that he couldn’t answer her call just at the moment, but that if she left a message he would get back to her as soon as possible.

Abi shut him off; she wasn’t going to leave a message-she was sick of leaving messages that he didn’t respond to. But the clinic-in bloody Harley Street, where he had all those bloody pampered princesses worshipping the ground he walked on-now, she might do a little mischief there. He might even be there; she knew he was often on call on Saturdays…

She dialled the number, asked to be put through to him.