He’s not sure why he agreed to this weekend away, except perhaps out of guilt. He already regrets it; he just wants to go home. He fantasizes harmlessly for a moment about getting back in his car and leaving his wife here. How long would it be before she noticed he was gone? What would she do? Quickly, he squashes the fantasy.

His wife has been looking increasingly unhappy lately, but, he tells himself, it’s not just because of him. It’s the kids, too. Her job. Encroaching middle age. Her thickening waistline. It’s everything. But one person can’t be responsible for another person’s happiness. She is responsible for her own. He can’t make her happy.

Yet, he’s not a complete heel. He knows it’s not that simple. He loved her once. She’s the mother of his children. He simply doesn’t love her any more. And he has no idea what to do about it.

Dana Hart stamps the snow off her Stuart Weitzman boots at the front doorstep and looks around the lobby approvingly. The first thing that strikes her is the grand central staircase. The newel post and banisters are elaborately carved out of a burnished, dark wood. The stairs are wide, with a thick runner in a dark floral pattern. She can see the glint of the brass carpet rods holding the runner in place. It’s very impressive, and these days Dana isn’t easily impressed. The staircase makes her think of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, or perhaps Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. It’s the kind of staircase you put on your best long dress for, and make an entrance, she thinks. I’m ready for my close-up. Unfortunately, she didn’t bring any evening gowns. What a shame for such a glorious staircase to go to waste, she thinks. Next she notices the large stone fireplace on the left side of the lobby; around it are arranged a lot of comfortable-looking sofas and chairs for lounging in, some in deep-blue velvet, others in dark brown leather, accompanied by little tables with lamps on them. The walls are panelled halfway up from the floor with dark wooden wainscoting. A gorgeous Persian carpet covers part of the dark wood floors and makes everything feel cosy but expensive, which is just what she likes. A chandelier sparkles overhead. The smell of the wood fire reminds her of blissful days spent at Matthew’s family cottage. She breathes deeply and smiles. She’s a very happy woman. Recently engaged, on a weekend tryst with the man she is going to marry. Everything is glorious, including this lovely hotel that Matthew has found for them.

He dropped her at the front and is parking the car. He’ll be here in a minute with their bags. She sets off across the lobby past the fireplace to the old-fashioned reception desk to the left of the staircase. Everything here gleams with a patina of age and good furniture polish. There’s a young man behind the desk, and another man, older – obviously a guest – leaning against it, leafing through some pamphlets. He glances up when he sees her. He stops for a second, stares, and then smiles in an embarrassed way and looks away. She’s used to it. She has that effect on men. As if when they see her, they can’t believe their eyes for a minute. She can’t help that.

The younger man behind the desk does an almost imperceptible double take, but it’s there. She’s used to that, too.

‘I’m Dana Hart. My fiancé and I have a reservation under the name Matthew Hutchinson?’

‘Yes, of course,’ the young man says smoothly and looks at the register. She notices that they use an old hotel register – how quaint – rather than a computer system for checking in guests. Behind the desk, against the wall, are wooden pigeonholes for the room keys. ‘You’re in room 101. Up the stairs to the first floor and to the right,’ the young man tells her.

The door opens behind her with a burst of cold air and she turns to see Matthew with a bag in each hand and a dusting of snow on his coat and on his dark hair. He comes up beside her and she brushes the snow off his shoulders; she enjoys these little demonstrations of ownership.

‘Welcome to Mitchell’s Inn,’ the young man behind the desk says, smiling and handing over a heavy brass key. She notices now how attractive he is. ‘Dinner is in the dining room from seven to nine pm. We offer drinks in the lobby before dinner. Enjoy your stay.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure we will,’ her fiancé says, giving her a look. She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him, her way of telling him to behave himself in public.

Matthew picks up the bags again and follows Dana up the wide staircase. He notices that there’s no lift. It’s a small hotel. He chose carefully. He wanted somewhere quiet and intimate to spend some time with Dana before all the craziness of the wedding, which he would prefer to avoid altogether. He wishes they could elope to some delightful spot in the Caribbean. But the heir to a large fortune in New England does not elope. Such a thing would crush his mother, and all his aunts, and he’s not prepared to do that. And he knows that Dana, despite her sometimes becoming overwhelmed with the stress of the planning, the appointments, the millions of details such a wedding entails, is actually quite thrilled about the whole thing. But she’s been prone to emotional outbursts lately. This break will be good for both of them before the final push to their spring wedding.

The thick rug softens their footsteps so that it is almost perfectly quiet as they walk up the stairs to the first floor and a few steps along the hall to room 101. There’s an oval brass plate on the door, engraved with the number, and an old-fashioned keyhole lock.

He unlocks the door and opens it for her. ‘After you.’

She steps inside and smiles approvingly. ‘It’s lovely,’ she says. She whirls to face him as he closes the door firmly behind them.

He puts his arms around her and says, ‘You are lovely.’ He kisses her; eventually she pushes him away with a playful shove.

She shrugs out of her coat. He does the same and hangs them up in the wardrobe. They examine the room together. The bed is king-size, of course, and the linens, he notes, are first rate. There are chocolates wrapped in foil resting on the pillows. The bath is obviously intended for two, and a bucket of champagne on ice rests on a little table near the door, with a note of welcome. The windows look out onto the vast front lawn with snow-weighted trees, and the long, curving drive leading down to the main road, filling up fast now with snow. Half a dozen cars are in the car park to the side of the lawn. The two lovers stand together side by side, looking out.

‘It’s the honeymoon suite,’ he tells her, ‘if you haven’t already guessed.’

‘Isn’t that bad luck?’ she asks. ‘To book the honeymoon suite when it’s not really your honeymoon?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ They watch a car struggle bravely up the drive and pull slowly into the cark park. Four people get out. Three women and a man. He nuzzles her neck and says, ‘How about a nap before dinner?’

Ian Beeton drops into one of the chairs next to the fireplace in the lobby while Lauren signs in and gets the key to their room. He wouldn’t mind a drink. He wonders where the bar is. The dining room is to the right, off the lobby – the glass doors to the dining room are open and he can see tables with white linen tablecloths set up inside. The place is quite charming. Probably lots of little rooms and hallways and alcoves by the look of it; not like a typical modern hotel, built for efficiency and maximum returns.

He turns his attention to the two women they rescued. Gwen, the driver, is getting the key to their room. It looks like they’re sharing. He watches them go up the stairs together. He lets his mind drift.

Lauren approaches and holds out her hand to him. ‘Ready to go up?’

‘Sure.’

‘Dinner is from seven to nine in the dining room, but we can have cocktails down here,’ she tells him.

‘Good. What are we waiting for?’

‘We’re on the second floor.’

He gets up and lifts the bags, then follows Lauren up the stairs. The place seems so quiet. Maybe it’s the snow, or the thick carpet, or the soft lighting, but everything seems muffled, subdued.

‘Did you notice anything odd about that woman Riley?’ Lauren whispers as they climb the elaborate staircase.