She had intentionally waited until the children would be in bed to come home, not wanting them to witness the fallout, whatever shape it might take. But now she regretted the decision, longing not only for their bodies to press against hers, but for the distraction they would provide, a foil for the conversation they were about to have, the deep, unavoidable well that was about to open up in the centre of her universe, swallowing them whole.

When she moved through the tiny hallway, rendered even smaller by the contrast to Ivan’s wide open entrance, she saw that Tom wasn’t on the sofa, or in the kitchen. It was the flash of amber from his cigarette that led her out through the garden door.

The moment she saw him there, the hatred she’d built up towards him fell away. In the darkness, his features were softened so that he was the Tom she had met all those years ago in the club; the Tom who had held her hand through both labours.

Looking up, he attempted a smile, which was instantly obliterated by a wash of sadness. Looking closer, she saw that he had been crying.

‘Hey,’ he said as she settled on the other chair, the garden light turning off as quickly as it had come on.

‘Hey,’ she replied. Any wind she’d had left in her as she stepped into the house had been pulled from her sails.

He didn’t ask where she had been.

‘There’s wine in the kitchen if you want it,’ he said and she shook her head.

‘I’m OK.’

He sighed. ‘But we’re not, are we?’

His words hung in the air.

‘No, we’re not.’

‘What’s going on, Gabriela?’

There was a moment of silence and then she felt her body clench.

‘You’re asking me?’

His words hardened in response. ‘Well, I’m not sure who else I should ask.’

‘To be honest, Tom, I would have thought it should be me asking you.’

She wasn’t going to be the first to break. She wouldn’t let him have this one so easily.

‘You asking me what’s going on? That doesn’t sound very likely, does it?’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she snapped without raising her voice, aware of the children’s rooms above their heads, and the neighbours who could hear their every breath.

‘When was the last time you asked what was going on with us, Gabriela? With me and the kids?’

He spread his arms out, gesturing towards the windows where the glow from Callum’s nightlight had dissolved into black.

‘Oh please, what are you even talking about? Don’t make this all about you. That’s such a typical male move. You want me to ask you straight, then OK, I will: how long have you and Harriet been sleeping together?’

‘I’m sorry?’