He trails after her into the kitchen and she pacifies him with a bag of crisps and sends him off to the living room. A blast of cartoon laughter roars from the TV.

The post has been sorted and Adam’s opened again. So he must have been here. What is he playing at? Three parcels for her, too large for the letterbox, have been brought in and left on the side.

Again, the kettle is warm. She tops it up with cold water and switches it on. One washed mug is still damp on the drainer. Is he just not talking to her? She sends him a text for the millionth time asking what time he’s back. That’s odd, the spider plant on the windowsill above the sink is dead; brown shrivelled leaves hang over the edge of the pot as if they’d been gasping for water. But she can’t understand it. There is water in the tray. She’s made a point of checking on it every morning. It’s not as if she even likes plants, but Adam keeps going on about how healthy they are for the home environment or something. The last thing she wants is for him to find them dead, she’d never hear the end of it. Maybe that’s why he’s mad at her? He’s popped in and seen it. Usually he’d leave her a scrawled message on the back of an envelope. Isn’t she even worth that? She moves it onto the draining board. The compost is saturated. She must have overwatered it.

After a cup of tea, she starts dinner. Still no reply to her text. If he’s not back any minute with a bottle of sparkling wine, there’ll be trouble. She smiles imagining him coming up behind her, kissing her neck and she’ll inhale the musky eau de toilette she adores.

As soon as the ready meals and chips are in the oven, she checks on Jamie in the living room. He’s lying upside down on the sofa watching cartoons, his feet stretched out up the back. Her friends are coming over later to throw her a baby shower. She ought to tidy up a bit.

‘Don’t you have any homework?’

‘Nah.’

She takes out his school journal. ‘What about maths?’

‘Oh yeah.’