He came down the centre aisle with her on his arm, past the lilies and the candles and the people crying into folded programmes, and he did not look broken. He looked relieved. Imogen had spent years being described as small and naive by a man who told her she would crawl back to nothing without him, and everyone in that church knew only the version of her he found convenient. The teacher. The cardigans. The little online shop.

The shop had become a digital education company worth sixty two million dollars, and he had never once asked enough questions to find out. But the money was not the dangerous part. She knew about the affair, the falsified invoices, the gambling debts. And in her last months she worked out that the disease was being helped along.