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work, and then leaned against the back wall of the lift, fortifying herself as she descended to the lobby of the building. When the doors slid open, she straightened her shoulders and walked past the concierge desk through the revolving doors to catch a cab for work, because Acton didn’t want her riding the tube. Technically, he wanted her to use the concierge driving service, but she shied away from it, still too sensitive about giving the appearance of flaunting her new-found wealth. As a compromise, most days she hailed a cab and as a result, one of the drivers had taken to waiting for her in the mornings. His license said he was Rwandan, and because his English was almost unintelligible, she felt a kinship with him, and appreciated his allegiance. As he held the door for her, he made a comment that she interpreted as a greeting. In return, she mustered up a wan smile and they were under way.
    She raised the window, as the street outside smelt of gasoline fumes which did not aid in the settlement of her poor stomach. Mind over matter, she thought with steely resolve; I will think about other things. Acton must have made the plan for Sunday when he spoke with Timothy; he had called to ask the doctor to recommend an obstetrician. Truth be told, Doyle wasn’t certain she was looking forward to the Sunday get-together. Acton was clearly making an effort to behave as a normal couple would behave in an attempt to please her, and as Timothy and Caroline were his oldest friends, it would seem the ideal way to make a stab at some sort of social life. The problem was that Doyle had never much desired a social life—for the obvious reasons—and didn’t particularly want one just now, whilst she was still coming to grips with the other major changes in her life.
    For the second time that morning, she gave herself a mental shake; this type of socializing may be just the thing to help Acton, as apparently he believed he was in need of treatment. I think that’s the nub of it, she thought in all honesty; I’d rather no one else had a window into the relationship between us, especially a psychiatrist. Not to mention that neither one of them could be completely honest with anyone—faith, they weren’t completely honest with each other, and with good reason.
    They had gone to visit the McGonigal siblings for the first time last week, and Doyle had privately found it a little trying. She had first met Timothy when he’d deftly treated her—no questions asked, thanks be to God—on the infamous night she shot herself in the leg and managed to get impregnated. A few days later, she’d met his sister Caroline at Fiona’s funeral. Fiona had been a forensics scientist at the CID morgue, and she was murdered by the same raving lunatic who had tried to kill Doyle, but no one else knew of it. Acton had given the eulogy, and the occasion was the first time that Doyle had made a public appearance as his wife. Her husband had spoken eloquently of Fiona’s goodness and their friendship, but all the while the general congregation was covertly eying Doyle, rampant curiosity and shock battering her from every angle. So as to be a credit to Acton, she’d tried to maintain her poise, but would not have been at all surprised if her blush had become indelible.
    On top of the general trauma of being revealed as Acton’s unexpected wife, Doyle became aware of two things that day: Timothy had been in love with Fiona, and he was unaware that Fiona and Acton had once had an affair. Doyle was becoming accustomed to such interesting revelations, and was fast coming to the conclusion that the workaday lives around her were merely a dignified veneer, and that underneath it all were undercurrents of love and longing, some seething and some more circumspect. She had never paid much attention to them before Acton; jealousy and lust had been motives for crimes with no real application to daily life. Now, however, she was resonating like a tuning fork,