‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, shall I? You are leaving this house. I’m moving back in and renting out the spare bedroom to make some money to put towards the mortgage. If you don’t do as I say, I will default on the mortgage and tell the building society I’m not going to make any more payments. They will repossess and throw you out anyway. I’ll tell them to do it sooner rather than later.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Ian’s voice sounds uncertain though. He’s never seen me like this, but the rage is building nicely inside me and suddenly I feel capable of anything.

‘I can, and I will. The house is in my name only, so when it’s sold – and it will no doubt go for a ridiculously low price so they get their money back quickly – the balance, the fat deposit that I put down, will all be repaid. To me. Not you. Now, if you think you’re going to get any of that, you can whistle for it or sue me. Whichever takes your fancy. Have you got all that, Ian?’

I realise I must look like a fishwife. My head is thrust forward towards him.

He looks shocked. ‘Jesus, what a bitch you are.’ He spits out the words. ‘You can’t make me do anything.’

‘Watch me,’ I snarl.

I push past him again and march into the bedroom to collect some more of my things, and Ian returns to the sitting room, no doubt hoping that if he doesn’t argue I might leave as soon as I’ve packed.

The bedroom is a tip too, Ian’s clothes all over the floor, most of them dirty. I slept in the spare room when I got back from holiday, and the bed in here smells as if it hasn’t been changed since before I went to Myanmar. I feel my nostrils flare with disgust. And something snaps.

I thrust open the window, initially to let in some air. Then I eye the clothes on the floor and scoop them up, an armful at a time, and chuck them out of the window, my blood all over them. I rip the sweaty bedding off the mattress and that follows. I hear a thundering of feet up the stairs.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Ian yells.

‘Giving your clothes an airing, you slob,’ I scream back at him.

I glance towards the window. A couple are walking past, staring up at us, and I glimpse a look of concern on the woman’s face.

I spin back towards Ian. ‘Get out of my way.’

I reach under the bed and grab a soft case, randomly flinging in underwear, tops, jumpers and jeans, ramming them into every corner.

‘You’re a mad bitch, you know that, don’t you?’