I turn left onto the driveway and shut off the engine.

‘I like our house, it’s got a nice friendly face,’ Maisie says, leaning forward and looking up wistfully.

I smile and follow her appreciative stare. I know what she means. The house is nothing special, just a red-brick Victorian semi in Ladybay, a desirable area – according to local estate agents when we bought it – located just three miles from the city.

It has attractive symmetrical windows and a smooth brown PVC door with stained-glass panels. The small front lawn is edged with neat borders and we have two terracotta pots containing topiary trees, which Maisie herself helped us choose, that perfectly frame the entrance porch.

She particularly loves her bedroom, which overlooks the long, narrow garden at the back and, crucially, has a walk-in cupboard complete with shelving for all her soft toys.

‘I want to live here forever,’ she sighs, and looks at me. ‘Promise we can?’

Icy fingers tickle the back of my neck. I can’t lie to her.

She can’t know how close Shaun and I came to splitting up and selling the house. It was one of the options we discussed before deciding there was a better way – until Maisie is a little older, at least.

‘Well, we’ve no plans to leave it any time soon,’ I say briskly, opening the driver’s-side door. ‘Now, make sure you’ve got all your stuff and let’s go and see what Dad has rustled up for tea, shall we?’

I walk up the short path, push the front door and am surprised to find it locked. Rolling my eyes, I fumble in my oversized handbag for my keys.

It’s happened a few times in the last couple of weeks: Shaun isn’t home when he’s meant to be and reappears at his leisure with no offer of explanation. The whole point of our new arrangement is that we’re supposed to have parity in our parental duties, each of us giving Maisie equal shares of our time.

Just lately, Shaun seems to be either unwilling or unable to grasp this fact.

Inside, the house is quiet. At this time of day, Shaun would usually be home and watching the news headlines on television. Seeing as it’s his turn to make tea, I would at least expect to hear him pottering around in the kitchen.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had the distinct feeling he’s being distracted elsewhere.

‘Hello?’ I call out into the silence. No response.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Maisie frowns as she follows me inside. ‘I thought he was supposed to be looking after me tonight while you’re working?’

‘Perhaps he’s had to go out on a quick job,’ I say lightly, making a real effort to swallow my irritation. She’s had to listen to enough sniping between us over the last year. ‘Close the front door behind you, poppet.’

I toss the car keys on the console table in the hallway and glance around there and in the kitchen for a note, but there’s nothing.

Perhaps I’ve been too willing to believe Shaun is as invested in our new arrangement as I am. We only agreed on this week’s rota yesterday and he seemed more than happy to look after Maisie tonight. He volunteered to, in fact.

‘I’m starving,’ Maisie grumbles. ‘Can you make tea tonight instead, Mum?’

‘Course,’ I say. ‘Go and get changed out of your dance gear and I’ll rustle something up.’

When I hear Maisie skip lightly upstairs, I ball my fists and let out a silent scream.

Tonight, I’m scheduled to listen to a company webinar about very important legislative updates as well as new case law. I’m due to give an outline of my findings in the morning at our 8.30 staff meeting.

I know Joanne sees it as a chance to appraise my analytical skills and gauge how I can communicate my findings effectively with the team. For me, it’s a valuable chance to impress her and the other two partners in my new capacity as paralegal.

And Shaun knew this. He bloody well knew it.

Joanne had given me an entirely reasonable seven days to listen in to the session. I’d initially planned to do it over the weekend, but Shaun had to pop out to shoot a local football match on Sunday so asked me to cover his usual time with Maisie.

‘I’ll cover the whole of Monday evening when you get back from dance, so you’ll have plenty of time to get done what you need to,’ he assured me.

He might at least have texted me to say he’d be home late or something, I grumble silently to myself.

I grab my bag, realising I haven’t actually checked my phone for a while. Maybe he has sent me a text. On the second foraging attempt, I find it wedged right in the bottom corner beneath a mountain of useless stuff: school letters, empty headache tablet foils, tissues… the list goes on. It’s rubbish I’m always meaning to throw away.

The screen lights up instantly and I see I have indeed missed a call, a text and a voicemail.

I listen to the message, praying it’s not Shaun saying he’ll be out all night. But it’s not from my husband at all.

‘Hi, Emma, it’s Joanne from the office.’ My boss’s clipped, efficient tone fills my ear. ‘Listen, we’ve just had a big job come in, it’s all hands on deck here. This is going to be the perfect chance to flex your new paralegal muscles.’ She pauses, as if she’s trying to control her excitement. ‘If you can get in by six tonight, I’d be immensely grateful. Otherwise, I’ll have to get one of the other paralegals in… OK, thanks.’

I immediately speed-dial Shaun three times, but each time it goes straight through to voicemail. I wonder if he’s run out of battery, because he never turns his phone off – even in the cinema – in case new jobs come in. He usually just turns the ringtone to silent if he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

I stare into space as my fingers rake through my hair. I feel light-headed with frustration. I swear, it will be all I can do not to go for his jugular when he finally gets home.

It’s 5.35 p.m., but I still have time to get into the office on Mansfield Road by 6. It’s only an eleven-minute drive from home if there are no delays. I pick up the phone again and call my mother’s landline. She lives on the way into the office, on Radcliffe Road. It’ll be easy to drop off Maisie and then whizz across the city if Mum is around.

The phone rings but then goes to voicemail. I leave a harried message.

‘Mum? I have a bit of an emergency at work, they need me to go in urgently and Shaun is out.’ I take a breath, aware that I must sound a bit manic, speaking so fast. ‘I can’t stress how important this is, Mum. Can you call me back right away, please?’

I also call her mobile phone. Again, it rings and I leave another message.

That’s all I can do for now, and it’s killing me.