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A few days later, I receive a message from Martha.

Dear Al

I don’t know what’s going on. We miss you.

I’ve been going mad, losing the plot, doing crazy things.

I heard a seagull in the background of one of our phone calls and I became convinced you were at the seaside, that you were having an affair.

I even went to this house out by Folkestone and rang on the doorbell because I was so sure you’d be there.

Of course you weren’t there and I felt like an idiot, and of course seagulls don’t only live by the sea, I know that, and I’m losing my mind, Al.

I understand that your mum needs you too, but please, please come home.

We need you, Jonah needs you. I can send you money.

Just come back. I love you so much. Please darling. Please.

Beneath her message is a row of praying-hands emojis and three red hearts.

My stomach lurches and for a moment it all comes flooding back, the joy of life with Martha, her cottage, the boys, my beautiful daughter. But then I think—how did she know about Nina’s house in the first place? So I reply circumspectly.

Baby. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, I love you too. But what is this business about a house in Folkestone? What on earth, you crazy girl! How bizarre!

She replies a moment later:

Please forgive me, I used a dog tracker in the car a few weeks ago, when I thought you were having an affair. The app showed you going to that house when you left us in the pub that day. I was an idiot. Obviously you weren’t there. I hope you can forgive me??? Please come home. Please.

More praying-hands emojis. More love hearts.

My heart, which had begun to harden against Martha, softens at the edges.

Yes, I think, it is reasonable that she might have suspected an affair.

It is reasonable that she might have tried to keep tabs on me.

It is reasonable that having heard seagulls in the background of a call I told her I was making from the Midlands, she might have jumped to a conclusion of that nature and then of course it makes sense that she would come to the house, to see for herself.

And what would she have seen? As she said, a family home, family photos, no sign of me, of an affair, of anything untoward.

My tendency is to forgive her. But I don’t reply immediately.

I sit on the bed in Jessie’s spare room, and I consider my options.

Jessie makes a soup that night: chicken, leeks, potatoes, cumin; it’s very warming and much better than her lasagna. I watch her across the table, taking in the bloom of sadness across her face, and I wonder about her future, her life, her money. And then I go to bed to think.

By 2 a.m., I have made my decision.