She liked the laughter. She hadn’t heard it for a long time. Not since she had told him she knew about the firm’s problems. And Serena.

It was over, he said. Long over. Over before it had begun. Only the stress of the take-over and the threat of redundancy had pushed him into it. Mutual comfort. Shared problems. Being thrust into each other’s company long day after long day. He couldn’t help himself. Sanity had returned. Serena had gone and he had come back to Charlotte.

But not totally. Something was still missing; some vital, central warmth had gone from their relationship and Charlotte still felt lost and miserable.

The holiday was his idea. Leave the broiling London streets, the car fumes, the hothouse claustrophobia of the city, and in the scented greenness of the country learn to trust each other again. She hadn’t asked him what she had done to lose his trust – the betrayal, after all, had been his alone. But deep down she knew. It was because she had found out. Never again could he trust her to look at him with the same innocence. The same certainty.

That was his loss.

They walked out into the lush twilight of the overgrown garden, and turned as bats swooped round them, to look at the cottage.

‘It’s still warmer out here than inside.’ Rob sipped his wine.

‘You noticed?’ Charlotte glanced at him. ‘It’s worst in the sitting room.’

‘Damp, I expect. It’s probably been empty all winter.’

‘And all spring? And all early summer?’ She shrugged.

Behind them an old apple tree was silhouetted against the green afterglow of the sky. Rob put up a hand to the bough rough with papery lichen. ‘I love these old trees. These days fruit trees are about two feet high. You couldn’t climb in them. Or swing.’ His fingers had found the old chains, bitten deep into the bark. They had been cut off a few inches below the branch. Rust and cobwebs and old leaves had all but hidden them.

‘This must have been an idyllic place to live as a child.’ Charlotte leaned against the branch. She could feel the coldness of the dew on her sandals.

‘Only in fairy tales.’ Rob began to walk back towards the house. ‘No sanitation. Disease. Poverty – ’

‘Don’t spoil it, Rob.’

They moved the dried flowers and piled the hearth with logs. Charlotte cut roses from the pergola and they found a concert on Classic FM.

It was after eleven before they stirred and, seeing the fire a bed of ash, thought about going upstairs.

Charlotte went first, noticing that Rob had left both their cases on the landing. She sighed. ‘Where are we going to sleep?’ she called.

‘Don’t mind. You choose.’

She picked up her case and walked into the left hand room. It was the larger of the two and faced, like the other, across the garden.

‘This one.’ She put the case down on one of the beds.

‘It’s good there are two rooms. We can spread ourselves.’ He had come upstairs behind her. He lugged his own case into the other room.

Charlotte stared after him. This was supposed to be a reconciliation; a new beginning. She had imagined him bringing small gifts, wooing her afresh, reassuring her and above all making love.

Biting her lip she sat down on the bed. For a moment she was afraid she was going to cry. After a while she lay down, her arm across her eyes.

Mat? Where are you, Mat?

The voice outside her door was young; very clear.

She sat up and stared across the room in astonishment. ‘Rob? Is that you? Who’s there?’

The cottage was silent.

‘Rob?’ She realised suddenly that she was scared. ‘Rob? Where are you?’

It was as though someone were listening outside the door. Mustering every bit of courage she could find Charlotte tiptoed towards it and pushed it open. The landing was deserted.

‘Rob?’ She nudged open the other door with her finger tip. ‘Rob, are you there?’

Rob’s case stood in the middle of the floor. The room was empty.

Running downstairs Charlotte called again. There was no sign of him in the house, or again when she searched the dark garden. Standing on the lawn she gazed round puzzled.

And suddenly he was there behind her in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand. ‘Tea?’ he called.

‘Where were you?’ She stared at him, disorientated.

‘In the kitchen.’

‘No, just now. When I came downstairs.’

‘I was in the kitchen.’ She saw impatience flicker across his features. ‘You walked right past me.’

‘I didn’t.’ She tried to make it a joke.

He shook his head. ‘Never mind. Forget it. Have a cup of tea.’

He had washed the dishes, she discovered, and tidied everything away. He had put new logs on the fire and it was smouldering gently again.

Throwing herself down on the sofa, Charlotte sipped her tea. She watched him.

‘I wasn’t sleepy,’ he answered her unasked question. He stood up, his back to the flames. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it. Incredibly quiet. I hope we don’t get London-withdrawal symptoms.’ He gave her one of his lop-sided grins, half humorous, half quizzical.

‘So do I.’ She hadn’t meant her reply to sound so dry.

‘It is over, Carla. I swear it.’ He immediately looked guilty. ‘I was a total idiot and I shall regret it all my life. Please try and forgive me.’

She stared down into the depths of her mug. ‘I want to.’

‘But?’

One word could convey so much. Uncertainty. Fear. Hope. Resignation. Anger.

She glanced at him. ‘But you have to show me you still love me.’

‘Carla, you know I do.’

‘No, Rob. I don’t know anything any more. Words are so easy. They are not enough. You have to show me. Tell me. Reassure me. Every minute of every day if necessary.’ She paused and then tried to lighten the remark a little. ‘At least until I’m convinced.’

‘I see.’ For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to move, then at last his expression softened. ‘So you won’t hit me if I kiss you?’

She laughed. ‘No, I won’t hit you.’

She made it easy for him. She stood up and put down her mug and held out her arms.

‘Carla -’ He came towards her. His hand caught hers. Then he froze.

Mat? Where are you, Mat?

The call came from upstairs on the landing.

‘Who the hell is that?’ He dropped her hand and strode to the staircase.

‘It sounds like a boy.’ Charlotte was peering over his shoulder.

‘Come on. We heard you. We know you’re there.’ Rob ran up the stairs two at a time.

Charlotte remained at the bottom. ‘Be careful – ’

He was out of sight now, in her room. Then she heard his footsteps cross the landing and he was in his own.

‘There’s no one here,’ he called. ‘Take a look outside. He must be in the garden.’

‘How could he be? He couldn’t have gone past us – ’ Her voice died away and she shivered. ‘Forget it, Rob. It must have been someone outside in the lane.’

He was clattering down now, shrugging, heading for his mug of tea and the fire. ‘I could have sworn the voice came from upstairs.’

He sat down and leaning over the arm of the chair he drew his briefcase towards him. Unfastening it he drew out some papers and then settled back with a comfortable sigh, the incident apparently forgotten.

Charlotte stared at him in dismay. What had happened to the kiss? ‘Rob? You’re not working?’

‘No, of course not.’ His eyes did not leave the pages on his knee. ‘Just reading for a few moments while I finish my drink.’ He looked up suddenly. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, of course not.’ She sat down on the opposite end of the sofa gazing into the fire. Then she stood up again restlessly. ‘More tea?’

He did not hear her.

Shrugging she walked out into the kitchen and opened the back door. The garden was sweet scented beneath the moon; almost as light as day. She stepped down onto the grass and wandered across the lawn. The apple tree cast a hard shadow in the moonlight. Beneath it, it was black. Somewhere near by an owl hooted.

Mattie, where are you?

The voice was further away now at the end of the garden. He sounded young and very sad.

‘Hello!’ Charlotte called.

She took a couple of steps forward. ‘Hello? Don’t be afraid.’

There was no answer. In the silence she found she was shivering.

Behind her in the cottage a light came on upstairs. She didn’t notice. She stepped further into the shadows. ‘Where are you?’

Above her the apple tree branches were dark.

In the cottage the light went out.

‘I know you’re there. Come out, so I can see you.’ It was dark all round her now. The ground was damp underfoot, the air suddenly cold and bitter with rotting leaves. She knew there was no one there. She could sense the emptiness of the night.

Suddenly frightened she turned back towards the house. The back door was half open as she had left it. In the living room one small lamp burned by the fireplace. There was no sign of Rob.

Climbing the stairs she glanced into his bedroom. His curtains were open. She could see him in the moonlight, lying on the bed.

‘Rob!’ she whispered.

He slept on.

In her own room the smell of lavender and roses drifted in through the open window. She dug in her case for her washing things and her nightdress and crept downstairs to the bathroom.

She woke suddenly a couple of hours later and lay looking up at the ceiling. The moon had gone and the room was dark. For a moment she didn’t move, then she stood up and went to the window. The moon was behind the house now and the garden was still bright with its glow. There was someone under the apple tree. She frowned, straining her eyes. A girl in a white dress. She was sitting on a swing, gently rocking herself backwards and forwards with one foot.

As Charlotte watched the girl swung higher. She grasped the chains more tightly as she pushed harder, her head back, her long hair tumbling behind her as the momentum of the swing carried her higher, and she was pointing her toes now, her white dress flying in the moonlight.