I turn the grill on to 180 degrees, open the freezer to take out the fish fingers, and find there are none. I rummage through the cupboards, locate two cans of baked beans and one open can of dog food, a bit rank, but should be ok, Herbie eats anything. Stick the beans in the microwave and slip my frilly apron over my pants, an ironic moving-in gift from Tina, back when we shared a flat in London: ‘To my favourite Domestic Goddess!’ I see my old pal, grinning, off her face pretty much all the time on anything at all. The beans are hissing and spitting, jumping out of their skins. The microwave is spattered with bright orange sauce. Later. I’ll clean that later.

‘Anything good on?’ I place the dog’s plate on the couch beside him and Tommy’s plate on his knees.

‘Where are the fishies?’

‘Don’t start, Tommy. Remember the starving children in Africa?’ The moment I say it I wish I could force the words back inside. The kind of shit my father used to spew at me. ‘There was none left. We’ll get some tomorrow, ok?’

Tommy nods and lifts a spoon to his mouth.

‘Ouchy.’

‘Too hot, darling?’ I go to his plate and blow. ‘There now, see… Yummy?’ Lift the spoon and make an airplane noise as I bring it towards his mouth, which is clamped shut. See my hand moving of its own accord, slamming the spoon against his lips and forcing them to open. The clang of metal as the spoon falls from my shaking hand on to the floor. Hyper imaginings, never a good sign. ‘Ok, not to worry, you’ll eat when you’re hungry.’ I manage a jaunty wink before finding myself back in the kitchen, the bottle to my mouth, to hell with decorum, be still my banging heart.

The bottle emptied, a space opens up and my head feels liberated, as if I’ve just removed a too-tight elasticated band from my hair. Glide into the living room and flop down between my two boys, Tommy feeding Herbie the rest of his beans by hand: what a sweet, caring boy. I’ll make sure he eats later. Settle against the warmth of their bodies, feel mine softening, falling.

Sometime later an acrid smell of burnt cheese on toast from yesterday fills the room. I sit up too fast, head banging, dots dancing in my eyes. Black smoke is billowing under the kitchen door. Move as if in a trance, groggy, but pulse racing – is this another of my night hallucinations? Open the grill door, reach in, grab the handle, flames are leaping, drop the pan on to the floor – fuck, be still my walloping head. Wrap my hand in a soggy tea towel and lift the pan into the sink. Under the tap, and whoosh, the flames burst and die, black charcoal in their place. I lined the grill with baking paper instead of tinfoil, stupid stupid stupid woman. I see my son in the doorway, eyes huge and glassy. ‘Ok, Tommy, everything’s alright now.’