Julian said four things to me on the Monday evening, in our kitchen, at about twenty past six, while the children were upstairs.

He had rehearsed them.

I knew that within about six seconds, because Julian Vance had never once in eighteen years delivered bad news without practising it, and because he used a word — protected — that is not a word he uses.

He said: “I want a divorce.

I’m seeing somebody.”

He said: “The house is in my mother’s name.”

He said: “The cars belong to the company, and every account is protected.”

And he said: “Don’t waste your time.