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train at Gatwick and rushed into the airport, picked up some perfume and chocolate, and milled around looking for her. The worst of all, however, had been Jo’s sudden announcement that they had to move to Brighton. That was what had prompted the shift to France. She had set her heart on leaving London and opening a second gallery on the south coast. Hugh had almost instantly got Emma to put her house on the market. Then one of Jo’s artists had given Jo the house listings magazine, and she had, inevitably, honed in on Emma’s place. She had drawn a firm ring round it, and asked him to go and look at it with her. He had wriggled out of it by pretending to phone the estate agent and pretending that he’d been told it was under offer, but that had been the moment when he had known he was on borrowed time.
    His unusual situation no longer shocked him. From time to time he saw cover lines on women’s magazines, and sometimes he smiled to himself. ‘My love-rat husband had secret family.’ He sometimes picked up a magazine and flicked through the article in question, finding some perverse solidarity with a fellow bastard. Those magazines would have loved his story. At least he knew that, if he ever did get found out, neither woman would ever consider making his behaviour public. They had more dignity than that.
    As he kissed his girlfriend and his daughter goodbye, he wondered whether he had made things better or worse by forcing them to move to France. Tearing Emma away from her home in Brighton had been painful. She had been so settled there that he had never imagined he would succeed in doing it, but he had had no choice, and so his will had prevailed. Jo was stronger than he was, and he was stronger than Emma, so it made sense that Emma was the one who had to be shifted. Once he had started his campaign, it had been surprisingly easy. He refused to let himself analyse this. He knew that Emma had come to France for no other reason than because she loved him. She would literally have done anything for him and Alice.
    Now he was leaving her there. It was time for him to pay his dues back on the other side of the Channel.
    Emma pulled herself in, close to him, into his treacherous shoulder where she imagined she was safe. She clung for a few seconds, then released him.
    ‘You look after each other,’ he told them both solemnly. ‘Be good. Be careful. Lock the door at night. It’s not long till Wednesday.’ Then he gave Alice a last kiss, disentangled her arms from around his neck, got in the car and slammed the door.
    ‘They will be all right here,’ he muttered as he started the engine and waved to them both. There was a light drizzle in the air. They stood by the gate, getting wet, and he drove away.
    ‘They will be fine,’ he repeated. Emma was always going to be fine. She was one of life’s copers. He was pleased, now, that they had had the baby. He was glad that Emma had a focus other than him. Whatever happened in the future, Emma would be all right. She was a natural mother, and she would always have Alice. If things went well in France, he thought, they might even have another child. Perhaps they would do it properly, this time.
    Hugh drove out of the hamlet, waving cheerfully to the lady who lived by the church. Martine. She stared intently at him for a full five seconds before her face cleared with recognition, and she returned his wave enthusiastically. Hugh smiled to himself. How many other people drive around Pounchet in British-registered cars in February? he wondered. The woman, Martine, had already been over to the house to welcome them to the village. She would make sure Emma and Alice were all right during his many absences.
    As he left the tiny hamlet, and then their local town, St Paul, behind him, his excitement began to mount. He often surfed from one life to the other on a wave of adrenaline. He felt his guts bubbling with anticipation, thrilled that nobody involved had any idea about his