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‘Actually, I’m more tired than I thought. Would you mind terribly if I went upstairs?’
    He stood as she got to her feet. ‘I should have told Mrs Cordoza a kitchen supper would suffice. Would you like me to help you up?’
    ‘Please, don’t fuss.’ She waved away the offer of his arm. ‘I’m just a little tired. I’m sure I’ll be much better in the morning.’
    At a quarter to ten she heard him enter the room. She had lain in the bed, acutely aware of the sheets around her, the moonlight that sliced through the long curtains, the distant sounds of traffic in the square, of taxis slowing to disgorge their occupants, a polite greeting from someone walking a dog. She had kept very still, waiting for something to click into place, for the ease with which she had fitted back into her physical environment to seep into her mind.
    And then the door had opened.
    He did not turn on the light. She heard the soft clash of wooden hangers as he hung up his jacket, the soft vacuum thuck of his shoes being pulled from his feet. And suddenly she was rigid. Her husband – this man, this stranger – was going to climb into her bed. She had been so focused on getting through each moment that she hadn’t considered it. She had half expected him to sleep in the spare room.
    She bit down on her lip, her eyes tight shut, forcing her breathing to stay slow, in semblance of sleep. She heard him disappear into the bathroom, the sluice of the tap, vigorous brushing of teeth and a brief gargle. His feet padded back across the carpeted floor, and then he was sliding between the covers, causing the mattress to dip and the bedstead to creak in protest. For a minute he lay there, and she fought to maintain her even breaths. Oh, please, not yet , she willed him. I hardly know you .
    ‘Jenny?’ he said.
    She felt his hand on her hip, forced herself not to flinch.
    He moved it tentatively. ‘Jenny?’
    She made herself let out a long breath, conveying the blameless oblivion of deep sleep. She felt him pause, his hand still, and then, with a sigh of his own, he lay back heavily on his pillows.

I wish I could be the person that saves you but it’s just not going to happen . . . I won’t call you after you get this letter because that might upset you and that won’t be a fair reflection of you if I hear you cry because I have never seen you cry in a year and a half and I’ve never had a girlfriend like that before.
    Male to Female, via letter

2
    Moira Parker regarded the grim set of her boss’s jawline, the determined way in which he strode through her office to his own, and thought it was probably a good thing that Mr Arbuthnot, his two-thirty, was late. Clearly the last meeting had not gone well.
    She stood up, smoothing her skirt, and took his coat, which was speckled with rain from the short walk between his car and the office. She placed his umbrella in the stand, then took a moment longer than usual to hang the coat carefully on the hook. She had worked for him long enough now to judge when he needed a little time alone.
    She poured him a cup of tea – he always had a cup of tea in the afternoons, two cups of coffee in the mornings – collected up her papers with an economy born of years’ practice, then knocked on his door and walked in. ‘I suspect Mr Arbuthnot has been held up in traffic. Apparently there’s a big jam on the Marylebone Road.’
    He was reading the letters she had left on his desk earlier for his signature. Evidently satisfied, he took his pen from his breast pocket and signed with short, abrupt strokes. She placed his tea on his desk and folded the letters into her pile of papers. ‘I’ve picked up the tickets for your flight to South Africa, and arranged for you to be collected at the airport.’
    ‘That’s the fifteenth.’
    ‘Yes. I’ll bring them through if you’d like to check the paperwork. Here are the sales figures for last week. The latest wage totals are in this folder here. And as I