Every evening, the same tug at the mouth of her stomach. Before his steps outside, before the keys in the lock. When Adam is inside, she doesn’t stir. Only her gaze, for a moment, turns away from the window. She’s still in her nightgown and hasn’t left the room since this morning. She’s been looking at the garden all day. The plants need water. It’s late November, but it has been dry. Her hands rest mechanically on her lap. Now and then, she shifts her weight from a foot to the other.

In a moment, he’d call her from downstairs.

How are you? How was your day?

She pictures him standing in the hall rubbing his eyes, coat trapped in the crook of his arm. He kicks off his shoes and rustles around the house. Fridge to cupboards, he fixes something to eat.
Normally, he comes up with a tray.
Eat something Tess. Please.
But tonight she hears the slam of the cellar door. Muffled thumps, crashes; floorboards creaking under his hurried steps. He climbs up the stairs, walks past the room. His voice amplified by the big bathroom:
I’ve booked the tickets. We’re leaving Sunday.
She doesn’t reply, but she needs to see. He’s thrown their old rucksacks in the bathtub. Knelt on the floor, he scrubs their waterproof canvas with a sponge. He lifts every flap, scours all the zippers. When he’s finished, he rinses it under the shower. She can’t see his face, but she knows he looks wild.

She follows him. She follows him to the airport. Tess smiles at check-in and takes her shoes off at security.
He wants breakfast, she feels dizzy.