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“I HAVE TO SEE TO a few things now, my darling man,” Francesca says. “So busy... you know, with the celebrations tomorrow. I must love and leave you.” She kisses her fingers, presses them to my cheek.

Why isn’t she meeting my eye? Usually, she has the most intense eye contact of anyone I’ve known. I joke that she practically hypnotized me into taking on the project here.

What is it about that note that’s rattled her so much?

It was a test, showing it to her cold without any warning. It worked. But I’m not sure what it means, other than confirming there’s something she’s not telling me.

The door closes behind her.

Maybe I’m blowing things out of proportion after all the disturbing shit that happened earlier. What was it Michelle said? “She’s not a good person.” But Francesca literally radiates positivity. There isn’t a shred of darkness about her—

And yet I can still feel the sting of the scratches on my shoulder blade, chafing against my shirt. I think of that hidden side to her, the demon that’s unleashed in the bedroom. But that’s different, right?

I’m sure it’s nothing. Perhaps it’s because I have a specific dread of mysterious notes dropped on doorsteps. It’s how Mum let us know her intentions all those years ago:

I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you think of me right now, but I hope you understand.

A scrap of paper through the letterbox, two weeks after she left. Like that was all we merited. A Jiffy bag of cash arrived shortly after. Twenty grand, in fact.

“Well,” Dad had said. “Now you see what she really was. Christ knows where she got it but she sure as hell didn’t earn that money in any honest way.” We left Dorset soon after. “I’m damned if I’m going to hang around here to be gossiped about and pitied,” he said. “And I don’t want her filthy cash. Take it as your inheritance, son.”

I pull out my phone, it’s a little habit of mine. I like to check several times a day. The accuracy is scarily good, and it works even where there’s no 3G signal. Francesca’s passing through reception, possibly on her way to a catch-up with Michelle. I continue to watch as she passes through the front door, across the lawns. I find it so soothing. It’s—I don’t know—my equivalent of all the meditation Francesca goes in for. That’s my excuse, anyway, for downloading a tracking app onto her phone. She had to travel a fair amount up to London before the opening for interviews and the like. She went on research trips to stay at would-be competitors. And she was always, always where she said she would be. Of course she was. It gave me such peace of mind.

I installed it in secret, so she doesn’t know it’s there. No harm done. It’s reassuring. You know? Just in case. And even though she’s now back here most of the time I still check it, just out of good practice, three or four times a day.

I’ve felt some guilt about it. Course I have. But now I feel vindicated. Because it looks like there are secrets on both sides of this marriage.