‘Well, not quite everything, but certainly sans any modicum of restraint. Dad’s more on it, of course, but only marginally. They sent their love.’

They hadn’t, but Michael smiled and nodded in gracious acceptance, knowing they hadn’t either.

The games people play, I thought, getting up to lay the table as he poured peas into boiling water and checked the pie. But if they don’t, I thought later, after a convivial supper at the kitchen table, the television on low in the corner, the necessary third wheel to turn to in times of trouble, if they don’t play games, what then? Surely there was no escape from reality, which was often so ugly and stifling? I climbed the stairs to bed, leaving Michael to watch Newsnight. He’d doze in front of it, before coming up later, when I was asleep. Always a blessing. Crossing the bedroom to draw the curtains, I gazed down a moment into the lamplit street below. It was damp with rain. I turned and went through to the bathroom. Surely daily life was more bearable if one acted a part, if one pretended one was someone else? I switched on the bathroom light, catching my eyes in the mirror as I did. They were strained. Because yes, such theatrics were a strain. That was the trouble. I averted my gaze and busied myself with cleaning my face with a cotton-wool pad, something I could do without looking, determined not to prolong the scrutiny. And let’s face it, lots of people’s lives were strained, I thought, tossing the pad in the bin. Lots of people just buggered on. Because what was the alternative? Being myself? Where had being myself ever got me in the past?

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