I froze, waiting for him to elaborate. To tell me about the accidents that happen daily. A girl who fell from a high-rise window only a block from Imo’s in Manhattan. How, in Ned’s church, a huge lump of plaster had dropped from the ceiling, wounding a parishioner. He didn’t. Just a lot of heavy breathing, the whisky fumes revolting. Still I waited, though, and when I knew he wouldn’t go away until I glanced up, I did. He spat in my face. I didn’t brush it away, I knew the rules.

Finally I sensed him moving off. There was a rustling behind me as he collected his door keys from his desk in the corner. Then he blundered heavily past me through the kitchen. Down the passageway he went, and then the front door slammed behind him, rattling in the frame.

I raised my head and wiped my face. My hand was trembling. He’d be off to Soho to meet his buddies: a few alcoholics, out-of-work actors, none of whom had families any more, all of whom had been deserted. Boozing, ageing luvvies, who would have been there all day. And there he’d stay, until they were finally chucked out, in the early hours. Michael would pour himself into a black cab and trundle, expensively, home. He wouldn’t come up to the bedroom, I knew – thank God. He’d prostrate himself on the sofa in the study, and there I’d find him in the morning.

And then, the nightmare would continue: for days, weeks sometimes. A different sort of treatment: silent, deadly, brittle and tense. No words would be exchanged, and during that time, I’d determine to leave him, once and for all. Go to the police. Tell them about his threats. No bruises, of course, he was too clever for that, and I could almost hear the police sighing in my head. Telling me many people threaten to do things when they’re angry. Still, this time I’d do it. And just as I’d be building up to it, with Helena there too, for moral support, he’d come home beaming, almost as if he knew. The sun would come out and he’d have flowers in his arms and tickets in his pockets for Venice, just the two of us. And I can hardly bear to tell you this, but something inside me would crumble. My resolve. All the tension of the last few weeks would dissipate, and I’d feel such ridiculous relief flood through me. And I’d try not to picture Helena’s face, contorting in disgust and incredulity, as I found myself on an EasyJet flight a few days later. I’d text her, assuring her all was well, and that I was having really rather an amazing time. She wouldn’t reply.