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‘Which I don’t particularly enjoy,’ he cut in.

‘Most men would love the attention.’

‘Not this one.’

She ignored him. ‘Anyway, I’d hoped you’d serve.’

‘Serve?’ he said, astonished.

‘You know, drinks and whatnot.’

‘I’ve never done that before.’

‘It’s a new idea. I thought it would be rather nice to⁠—’

‘Show off how entirely emasculated I’ve become?’

Her frown grew deeper. ‘I see, war heroes and Spitfire pilots and art historians are above offering someone an hors d’oeuvre now, are they?’

‘I’m not above anything, Delia. I just don’t want to be your slave so you can show me off from every angle to your friends. You might as well pop me in a loincloth so I really can play the humble servant to the gods of Bath and their annual fete.’ He was being childish now, but he found himself unable to stop.

‘Oh well, if that’s how you feel,’ she said, her lips pinching tightly into a line. ‘You don’t even want to help your wife with something important to her.’

‘Delia, I’m not your butler or waiter or bloody Man Friday, whatever it is you have in mind for the penultimate fair meeting.’ If his voice was any more dryly sarcastic on the last three words, he would soon be coughing.

‘Well, what are you good for then?’

He could see that this remark had slipped out without any consideration or warning and knew full well it was just Delia in her usual attack mode, but still he overreacted.

‘Not much, clearly. Time for you to look for someone new… if you haven’t already.’ He turned away, disgusted with himself for going there.

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

There was no turning back. ‘I’m sure you can work it out, darling,’ he said in a drier tone, if that were possible. ‘If not, ask Gordon Stapleton. He’ll explain, or you can try any one of the people you surround yourself with and call friends – I’m sure they all find it a great wheeze.’ He looked at her, standing with her mouth open, the pot of tea still beneath the cosy. ‘I think I’ll go and pack now. There’s time to catch the four o’clock.’

‘When will you be back?’ she almost shrieked.

‘I don’t know, Delia.’ He turned at the doorway. ‘Frankly, I don’t really care to be back… ever.’

TWELVE

At his words, Delia gasped, clutching at her throat, tears erupting. ‘Oh Peter, please don’t be so cruel to me.’

‘No, I’m being kind. Cruel is this,’ he said, more tenderly now, sweeping his hand in an arc to take in their surrounds. ‘This sham of a marriage we’re living in.’

She began to weep.

‘I’m pretty certain you’re seeing Gordon again,’ he continued. ‘I’ve suspected as much for ages, but I’ve been too weak or, rather, I think I just couldn’t give enough of a damn to confront you about it.’

She folded in on herself like an old piano organ as she collapsed onto a hard kitchen chair, but she didn’t deny it.

So it was true. It was a relief to have confirmation.

‘And suddenly now you care?’ she mumbled over tears.

‘No. And that’s the worst part. I don’t care at all. But I think I’m only just admitting that to myself. More illuminating – to me anyway – is that it seems I’m actually glad for you.’

‘You’re what?’ She stared at him with incomprehension.