I flicked on some lights, threw my bag and coat on the sofa and shook off my heels, leaving them capsized in a corner. Derwent stood in the middle of the living room, watching me. I moved around without looking at him, putting on the heating, filling a glass with water, drinking it in one long swallow. He hadn’t spoken to me in the car. He hadn’t asked where I wanted to go. He’d taken me home, and without a single word made it very clear that he wasn’t just dropping me off, that there was a conversation we had to have. And I was tired all the way to my soul. It was easier to let him in, to let him shout at me if that was what he wanted to do, than to put it off for another day. But I was damned if I was going to listen to a lecture while I was wearing a dress that put me at a positive disadvantage. ‘I’m going to change.’ He nodded. ‘Help yourself to a drink. Or make a cup of tea.’ Another nod. He looked tired, I thought, at a low ebb after the high tide of controlled violence and efficiency that had got me out of the club, to the safety of my home.
