She pushed away her cold cup and rose, tightening the belt of her dressing gown around her slight body as she padded barefoot towards the front of the house. The tile felt gritty beneath her feet and she curled her toes as she knelt to gather the post. One envelope outweighed the rest, and the serviceable brown paper bore her solicitor’s return address. She dropped the other letters in the basket on the hall table and ran her thumb carefully under the envelope’s seal as she walked towards the back of the house.

Freed from its wrapping, the thick sheaf of papers unfolded in her hands and the words leapt out at her: IN THE MATTER OF THE MARRIAGE OF LYDIA LOVELACE BROOKE ASHBY AND MORGAN GABRIEL ASHBY… She reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped as her brain picked out words from among the legalese. FINAL DECREE… PETITION OF DIVORCE GRANTED THIS DAY… The pages slipped from her numb fingers, and it seemed to her that they drifted downwards, cradled on the air like feathers.

She had known it would come, had even thought herself prepared. Now she saw her hollow bravado with a sudden sickening clarity-her shell of acceptance had been fragile as the skin of algae on a pond.

After a long moment she began to climb the stairs slowly, her calves and thighs aching with the burden of each step. When she reached the first floor, she held on to the wall like an unsteady drunk as she made her way to the bathroom.

Shivering, shallow-breathed, she closed and locked the door. The motions required a deliberate concentration; her hands still felt oddly disconnected from her body. The bath taps next; she adjusted the temperature with the same care. Tepid-she’d read somewhere that the water should be tepid-and salts, yes, of course, she added the bath salts, now the water would be warm and saline, satin as blood.