But she doesn’t put it on. She makes a crêpe paper nest for it and puts it in front of her, so she can look at it. She feels better for being a little drunk. The guests take turns reading out cracker jokes.

What do you call Santa’s little helpers? Subordinate Clauses.

What is the best Christmas present in the world? A broken drum, you just can’t beat it.

Around her, these friends of theirs giggle, clink glasses; temporary kings and queens in their paper crowns. Finlay is watching her quietly.

Later, when all six of them have walked Achilles into and out of the forest, and the obligatory board game has been played, and she has made her excuse to retire to bed early, Finlay follows her up the stairs. The ring, which he had pocketed without comment when the table was cleared, he deposits, again without comment, into her jewellery box. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching her remove her make-up.

I’m sorry if the present made you sad, he says. I meant well.

I know, she says, tears reappearing in her eyes. Perhaps because of the blurring, she puts a little too much lotion on the cotton wool ball. I feel like I don’t know you, she says. I don’t know who you are. He is looking at her in the mirror. She cannot read his face. And if I trust you, if I go with this version of you, what’s to say you won’t hurt me, what’s to say you won’t disappear again?

His eyes are still steadily upon her.

It would be an act of faith, he says. I understand. But you don’t really have to make it.

How come? she asks.

Just take it day by day. Day by day, if you find you are happy in my presence, stay. And over time, you will learn that I am still here. Trust won’t be necessary. And in any case – he stands, and peels off his shirt – not trusting doesn’t protect you from hurt. If we broke up now, even with you holding yourself apart from me, it would hurt, would it not?

She nods.

He puts a hand on her shoulder.

My good wife. You are such a good wife. You have put up with so much and I have hurt you so badly.

She twists on the stool and rests her wet face on his belly. Feels the warmth of his hand on her skull. Replaying his words, I have hurt you so badly, provokes another tide of tears to break over the barrier of her lower eyelids and run down towards the waistband of his trousers, their course saying, Yes, you have, you have. Finally she, too, submits to his strange chromatography: all her ugly feelings drawn up to the surface by his clarity, separated out into their individual colours: fear, and anger, and guilt.