On that thought he went across to give them a cuddle. ‘Are you hungry, my little hobbits?’ They nodded and he wondered if they’d been fed at all today. He worried about that every day, so made sure they ate well in the mornings and evenings. He got out the biscuit tin, but it was empty. There were two pieces of stale bread left, so he put them on to toast then filled the kettle. He’d have to get some fish and chips.

He leaned over the sink, holding the edge of it, wishing he was a woman and could howl his eyes out. But men weren’t supposed to cry. He had no one he could turn to. His mother wouldn’t offer the sort of help he needed now, that was sure. She’d grown increasingly dogmatic over the years and now claimed she didn’t believe in divorce for any reason.

Oh, hell, what was he to do? His children were dirty and ill-fed, poor loves. He was hungry too, and at the absolute end of his tether. He buttered the toast and found a scraping of jam to put on it, then wiped the children’s hands and faces before sitting them down at the end of the table.

Gail raised her head and smiled owlishly at him, saying in a slurred voice, ‘Is it teatime already?’

‘Yes.’ He’d have snatched the bottle of wine from her, but it was empty and she was cradling it out of habit.

‘What time is it?’ She pulled herself into a sitting position and squinted at the clock. ‘You’re home early.’

‘I’ve lost my job, been made redundant.’

It took a minute or two for that to sink in, then she frowned. ‘You’ll get another one, though, won’t you?’

‘I can’t even go looking while you’re like this!’ he yelled at her, snatching the bottle out of her hand and nearly, God help him, smashing it over her head. ‘Go to bed. Just – go to bed and sleep it off.’

‘Don’t want to.’

He thrust his face near hers. ‘If you don’t go to bed, I’ll carry you up there myself and lock you in. Get – out of – my sight.’

When she shrank away, he felt guilty, but when he looked at his children, also cowering from his loud voice, he grabbed Gail’s arm, thrust her towards the stairs and repeated, at a slightly lower rate of decibels, ‘Go and sleep it off, damn you!’

While the kids were eating their toast, he counted his money, made some plans, then rang his mother. Whatever their differences, she loved her grandchildren and would look after them for him if she thought he was off for a job interview and Gail was ill.

They said alcoholism was an illness. Well, if so, his wife was extremely ill and refusing treatment.

And he’d had enough of coping with it, more than enough. He wanted out – for himself and his children.

With a can of lemonade in his hand, ignoring the fancy crystal glasses in the hotel suite’s bar, Jez sat watching TV. He flipped it off with the remote when Donna came in. ‘How did it go?’