‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said.

‘I just wish you’d phone,’ she said, ‘I’m supposed to finish these drawings for Mike. I know that it’s hardly any money, and I’m a bit rusty—’

He turned to me. ‘There’s a subtext here.’

‘What’s a subtext?’ I asked.

‘Darling, you’re an angel,’ he said to his wife. ‘You’re all things—wife, mother, hamster-catcher, fridge-defroster, lover, nurse, deeply talented graphic designer. Oh, let me put my hand up your subtexts!’ He turned to me. ‘Come on. Action stations!’

We fetched two cans of McEwan’s and went upstairs with the children. There seemed to be four of them. I carried the little girl, but she said I smelt funny and wriggled out of my arms. I had never bathed a child before; they seemed to have so many clothes, with so many buttons and little strips of Velcro. I knew there was something I had to remember about Barry, but I couldn’t think what it was. How could anyone think of anything, with children?

They were as slippery as eels and only one would let me wash him. Another slid on the lino, bumped into the toilet and cried. The smallest boy stood up in the bath, and peed. Jamie, the eldest, ticked me off for smoking and said I would die, like his father. The bathroom was strewn with wet clothes and the children kept running away to watch television.

The little girl sat on my knee, despite my breath, and tenderly played with my hand; at least, I thought she was. In fact she was using my fingernail to clean her own fingernails. Robbie was in high spirits; he played hide-and-seek with the bare children, bumping into the furniture. Piff called upstairs: ‘Please, darling, don’t get them excited!’

Supper was tense. I decided, not for the first time, that if only women drank, life would be easier. Piff sipped at a glass of orange juice. My head ached; the Aga made the room stuffy. They had invited me to spend the night, which was kind because my funds were running low. I could sleep on the sofa. I was trapped; she had put my clothes into the washing machine. I wore a pair of Robbie’s underpants and one of his checked shirts.

He was right; she was nice. I liked both of them, but I could hardly breathe. It felt as if we were being wrapped in bandages and someone was pulling them tighter. I had forgotten what marriage was like; in fact, by comparison mine seemed quite simple. They turned to me and told me things I didn’t want to know. Piff told me Robbie had had a vasectomy. We finished our scrambled eggs. I started telling them about the time I took a group of nuns to Inverness, then Robbie suddenly said: ‘Piff thinks I’m too busy saving the world to care about my family.’

There were short moments of silence. A child came downstairs. Piff told him to go to bed. Robbie hugged him. Piff snapped at Robbie. The child started crying. Piff said: ‘Now look what you’ve done.’ My head throbbed. I was sitting on something damp; it was a tomato. Piff turned to me and said: ‘Would you believe it, I was once Miss Lovely Legs of Glasgow College of Art.’