Julia jumped as her husband’s voice rang in her ear. She hadn’t heard him creep up on her and, looking down, saw why: Ewan’s feet were bare and made no sound on the floorboards. She glanced at Dylan and saw he was hunched over his cereal bowl, shovelling spoonfuls into his mouth. She was grateful he’d cleaned up the mess before his dad saw it.

Ewan poked the two slices of bread that Julia had been about to butter, his fingertip leaving craters.

‘See, there’s blue bits on them.’

Julia looked closer and saw he was right. And, bloody typical, they were the last two slices in the loaf.

‘I’ll have these ones,’ she said hastily.

‘I should think so. People might think you were trying to poison me. Dylan . . . help me!’

Ewan staggered over to the table pretending to gag while clutching his throat. His scalp was still pink from his shower, visible through a receding hairline that he shaved down to dark bristle. Dylan giggled at the performance, which culminated in Ewan throwing himself on the floor.

‘Honey, you’ll get your shirt and trousers dirty,’ said Julia, laughing along with her son.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Ewan, picking himself up. ‘The way they were ironed it looks like I slept in them anyway.’

Julia flushed. ‘I did use the steam setting like you said.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ he said, turning his back to address their son. ‘Your sister not up yet?’

Dylan, mouth full, could only shake his head.

‘She’s probably got her nose stuck in a book,’ Julia interjected. ‘Can you tell her to get a move on? It’s twenty past eight and we have to leave in fifteen minutes.’

‘Sorry, can’t. I’ve got to leave now or I’ll be late for the Arnold meeting. He’s not happy with the blueprints.’

Ewan came over to grab his lunch and kissed his wife on the cheek. His lips felt dry and cracked against her sweaty skin. With another scorching-hot day looming, Julia’s armpits were already telling her she’d need to reapply deodorant before leaving the house.

‘I won’t be home until late,’ he added. ‘Client dinner.’

‘It’s not on the board,’ said Julia, glancing at the wall planner covered in multiple scribbles and crossings-out that denoted the family’s coming and goings.

‘I did tell you about it last week.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘It’s not my fault if you don’t listen properly,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve always got too much on the go to pay attention.’

Julia felt a pang of guilt. He was right: between work, the children and running the house, Ewan did tend to slip in her priorities.

‘I’m sorry. I should’ve listened. Who’s the client?’ she asked, thinking that might jog her memory, because she could’ve sworn he hadn’t said a word about it until now.