The last one. Bev blinked back tears as she turned her attention to the stove, trying not to show a reaction to those distressing words. She remembered a poem she’d learned at school that had the same murderous chill. What was it? ‘That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive.’ Scary then, scarier now. Blindly, she tossed the mushrooms in the pan, mixed them with the translucent onions and cleared a space for the steak. She slapped it into the pan and started counting in her head. When she got to a hundred and eighty, she flipped it over and began the count again. She lifted a potato and tested it by squeezing. Almost there.

Bev was startled by the sound of a plate hitting the granite top of the island behind her. She whirled round. He was on the far side of the island, just feet from her, pushing a dinner plate towards her. For a mad moment, she thought about grabbing the pan and swinging for his head, but common sense prevailed. She wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t close enough. If she was going to make it home to Torin, she needed to choose her ground well.

Instead, she picked up the plate and turned back to the stove. She switched off the heat under the pans, drained the potatoes as best she could at full stretch, then served up the meal. She placed it on the island then stepped away, lowering her eyes, determined to offer him no excuse to criticise. Bev tried not to hate herself for becoming so cowed so quickly. It was a strategy, she told herself. A strategy for staying alive.

He took the plate to the breakfast bar and started eating. After a couple of mouthfuls of steak and vegetables, he glared at her. ‘You cooked the steak properly.’ He ate another chunk of meat, frowning. Then he cut into a potato and his face cleared. ‘You stupid bitch,’ he snarled. ‘How can you not know how to cook a potato? Fucking children in primary schools know how to cook a potato. These are like bullets.’ He picked up a potato, took aim and hurled it at her. Bev tried to dodge it, but it caught her on the shoulder, surprisingly painful, then skittered across the floor.

‘Pick it up, you lazy slut,’ he yelled. She tried but it was beyond the limit of her chain. ‘You can reach it if you lie down, you thick cow,’ he said, turning back to his steak.

Bev did as she was told. She had to stretch full length, straining with her fingertips to reach the potato, driven on by his sadistic grin. But she finally managed to tease it within reach. She picked it up and pushed herself to her feet. She held the potato up, raising her eyebrows in a question.