Checking her scalp again, Estelle encountered a fair amount of stickiness but scarcely any fresh blood. The last thing she felt like doing was spending the next six hours in casualty waiting for some overworked, sleep-deprived doctor to sew her up.

‘It’s OK,’ she told the taxi driver. ‘You can go.’ He looked up at Estelle. ‘Sure?’

Estelle nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘OK.’ With a shrug, the taxi driver said, ‘That’ll be sixty-five quid, then.’

When Oliver had paid him and the cab had disappeared from view, Estelle ventured down the stairs.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea, if that’s all right.’ Finding it hard to meet Oliver’s gaze, she headed for the kitchen.

‘Here. Sit down.’ While the kettle was coming to the boil, Oliver pulled out one of the carver chairs. ‘Let me take a look at that cut.’

Reluctantly Estelle did as she was told. She felt Oliver gently exploring her scalp with his fingers and wanted to cry. ‘How much does it hurt?’ said Oliver.

You mean compared with finding out my husband has another child? Hardly at all, thought Estelle. She shrugged and said, ‘I’m OK.’

‘It’s not deep. No need for stitches. So where were you hiding?’

‘In the wardrobe, in the spare room.’ She’d probably smeared blood all over the taffeta ball gown and Oliver’s old overcoat; it had been a tight fit in there. ‘You’ve got mud on your leg.’

‘Fell in the river,’ said Oliver, ‘trying to rescue Norris. I could picture the headlines,’ he went on. ‘Dog drowns; negligent businessman responsible.’

‘He jumped in and started splashing and yelping,’ Estelle guessed. ‘The reeds tickle his tummy.

He loves it.’ She paused, watching steam billow from the kettle. ‘How’s Tiff?’

The kettle clicked off and Oliver dropped teabags into the pot. Carefully he said, ‘Doing well.

Making a fantastic recovery.’

Estelle nodded, relieved. ‘I thought you’d be at the hospital.’

‘No. They don’t need me there.’ He paused. ‘How’s Will?’

Tit for tat, thought Estelle.

‘Sorry!’ Oliver blurted out. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. None of my business. I’m just sorry about .. . everything. The whole lot,’ he said tiredly. ‘God, what a mess.’

Estelle was speechless; she’d never heard him sound so defeated. Finally she said in a small voice,

‘Yes.’

He massaged the back of his neck. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

‘Didn’t you?’ What the hell, thought Estelle, the worst had already happened. Feeling suddenly reckless she said, ‘Sure about that?’

‘You were never supposed to find out. There’s nothing going on between Juliet and myself.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘I just wanted to see my son growing up.’

Estelle swallowed as the old ache of longing came back. She and Oliver had tried so hard for another child of their own, but it had never happened. Anyway, that was irrelevant now.

‘I’m not talking about Tiff.’ Her eyes were bright, her tone accusatory. I’m talking about the way you endlessly criticise me, tell me my clothes don’t suit me, sneer at the novels I read, complain that my roast potatoes aren’t crispy enough. Those are the things that hurt, Oliver. Being treated like a second-class citizen is what hurts.’

This outburst was greeted with a stunned silence. She was able to see Oliver mentally checking off each item on the list.

‘Do I?’ he said at last, clearly shaken. ‘Is that what I do? My God, I’ve never even thought about it before. I suppose I have done all those things.’

‘Trust me. You have.’

‘And Will was the one who pointed it out to you,’ said Oliver.

‘I suppose.’ Estelle was reluctant to give Will Gifford credit for anything. ‘But we were in a rut long before he came along. He just brought it all out into the open.’

‘And that’s why you ran to him.’

Oh God, she had run, practically the length of platform 4 at Paddington station. Wincing at the memory of having thrown herself ecstatically into Will’s arms, Estelle swallowed hard and forced herself to nod.

‘At least we aren’t in a rut now. This is the opposite of arut,’ Oliver said wearily. ‘I don’t blame you for getting out. Maybe Will’s what you need.’

Hadn’t he read the papers?

Dry-mouthed, Estelle said, ‘I’m not with Will any more.’ Physically, Oliver didn’t react.

‘No? Where are you staying?’

‘Cheltenham.’ She may as well tell him; dammit, he was going to be the one settling the Amex bill.

‘In a hotel at the moment. But I’ve been looking at flats to rent.’

‘Flats?’

‘Well, just the one.’ Despite doing her best to sound flippant, Estelle heard her voice crack.

Her twenty-eight-year marriage was over, she’d made a complete fool of herself with a younger man and now she was searching for somewhere to live. Waving her arms helplessly, she floundered on, ‘It’s, you know, a chance to re-think my life, make new friends ... I thought I might, um, get a job ...’

‘Or you could stay here,’ said Oliver.

Had he really said that?

Estelle’s eyes filled with tears. ‘What?’

‘OK, maybe stay isn’t the right word, seeing as you’ve already left. But you could come back,’

Oliver said hesitantly, ‘and we could try again. I never wanted to lose you. Maybe I didn’t always show it, and I know I’ve taken you for granted, but I do love you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. If you come back, I’ll treat you so much better. No more being critical. I’ll cut down on my hours, we can go away more often, spend a lot more time together. You wouldn’t regret it, I—’

‘How many others have there been?’ Estelle said abruptly. ‘Women, mistresses – other ones like Juliet?’

‘None. That’s the truth.’ Oliver shook his head vigorously, then groaned. ‘Oh God, I know what you’re thinking, that that’s just another lie. But I swear there haven’t been any others.’

Estelle paused, then shook her head. ‘It’s no good. We can’t, Oliver. Too much has happened.’

‘We can!’ There was an edge of desperation in his voice. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve missed you. I’ll do anything you say!’

‘But—’

‘Do you want me to retire? Give up work completely? I’ll do it.’ Oliver nodded, as if work was already nothing but a distant memory.

‘Oliver. You love your job.’

‘Not as much as I love you.’ His eyes began to glisten and instinctively he half turned away, unaccustomed to revealing this much of himself. Rubbing his face with his hands, he said desperately, ‘Estelle, you mean everything in the world to me.’

‘Oh God.’ She was trembling now; this was Oliver as she’d never heard him before. ‘But how could I come back here? Everyone in Ashcombe knows what’s happened. They’d be laughing at me behind my

—’

‘They wouldn’t.’ Vehemently Oliver shook his head. ‘Everyone loves you, this is where your friends are, but if you don’t want to stay here, fine. We’ll sell this place and move.’

‘Move?’ Heavens, Dauncey House meant the world to Oliver. ‘Move where?’

‘Wherever you like. Anywhere in the world.’

In a daze, Estelle said, ‘You’d do that?’

‘Anything.’

Estelle looked at him. Finally she nodded and said in a voice she barely recognised, ‘OK.’

‘OK what?’

‘I’ll come back. We don’t have to move. We’ll start again.’

Oliver was gazing at her, his expression incredulous. ‘You really want to?’

‘Of course I want to. You’re my husband.’ She managed a watery smile as a great wave of relief swept over her. ‘You made a mistake, I made a mistake. Some people never make mistakes, but we did.

And we’re both sorry. That’s allowed, isn’t it? If I forgive you and you forgive me, we can try again – oh Oliver, I love you too ...’

This time Estelle couldn’t control the tears, because they weren’t only rolling down her own face.

Sobbing and laughing at the same time, she jumped up from her chair and fell into Oliver’s comfortingly familiar arms. He was still wet and muddy from the river, wearing his dark blue towelling robe, and damp-haired. Thanks to the rapidly drying blood, the hair on one side of her own head was a mass of spiky bits and matted chunks. But when you’d been married for twenty-eight years, Estelle joyfully discovered, it really didn’t matter how ridiculous you might look. After twenty-eight years, all that counted was what was going on in your heart.

Chapter 52

‘Right, that’s sorted then,’ Nuala announced. ‘The three of us, tonight, nine o’clock, Trash.’

Nuala had been wittering on for ages. Having tuned out long ago, Maddy came to with a start.

‘Hmm? What was that?’

‘Honestly, you don’t deserve a friend like me.’ With exaggerated patience, Nuala finished pricing the last few bottles of Tuscan olive oil. ‘I’m organising your social life, cheering you up, stopping us all ending up like this.’

‘ What?’ Now Maddy was definitely lost.

‘Extra-virgin.’ Bossily Nuala tapped the label on the rectangular bottle in her hand. ‘I mean, let’s face it, when was the last time any of us saw any action? It’s not natural! We’re young and in our prime! Which is why we should be going out to celebrate and have a bloody good night. It’s also about time you cheered up,’ she told Maddy. ‘The best way to get over a man is to find a better one, and Trash is the place to do it. Just nod and say, Yes, Nuala.’

Oh dear, had she really been that grumpy? Maddy experienced a spasm of guilt. Poor Nuala was doing her best; she was lucky to have her around. At this rate she was in danger of ending up a right Nellie No-Friends.