It’s not what he’s expecting. The house smells different, like the old, pre-loss days, and he tries to identify what’s fighting with the garlic and frying oil coming from his bag of takeaway. There’s floor cleaner, and Windolene, and the woollen smell of carpets after vacuuming. And on top of that there’s cooking, something with chicken and mushrooms.

From recent habit, he looks for Claire first in the lounge, thinking she’ll be lying on the sofa, the unwatched TV showing Emmerdale or Corrie. But the TV’s silent, and the sofa has the plumped-cushion look of not even having been sat on. On the windowsill, there’s a vase of fresh flowers.

Fresh flowers?

‘Hello!’ He finds her in the kitchen, stirring a pan on the hob and smiling. Things have been put away – the sink is empty of unwashed plates and mugs – and the worktops have been wiped down. A window is open on to the back garden, letting in the scents of the summer evening. What’s missing is a wine bottle, and an always-full glass.

In Claire’s tired eyes there’s a hint of sparkle, a trace of the woman he married.

He puts his Chinese food on the counter.

‘Hey.’ He gestures at the cleaned-up kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Elves,’ she says. ‘They came while I was sleeping.’

‘Looks good. What are you making?’

‘Some super-speedy Jamie Oliver thing. Speedy when he does it, anyway. But it looks like you brought your own.’

‘I’d rather have home cooking.’ Through his shirt, he squeezes a handful of the belly fat this unwanted Just Eat, chips-with-everything new life has forced on him.

She seems embarrassed, a little self-conscious.

‘You can ask me if you want.’

‘Ask you what?’

She gives him a look.

‘OK, I’ll ask. Where’s the wine?’

‘I thought I’d have a night off. Actually it’s my third night off. Since you and Evan went.’

He’s surprised. There hasn’t been a night Claire hasn’t been drinking since – he can’t remember when.

‘How come?’ He crosses to the stove, lifts the lid on a pan. ‘Couscous? You’re scaring me.’

‘I’ve had an epiphany,’ she says. ‘And I’m hungry. Let’s eat and I’ll tell you.’

She reaches into drawers and cupboards for plates and cutlery, actions that used to be routine but it hasn’t been this way for a long, long time. Pushed to say when they last ate together properly, Claire couldn’t begin to guess. Christmas, maybe, although even then she can’t remember that she ate much; most of her calories were in a glass. She spoons couscous and chicken on to two plates, and adds generous portions of green beans.

Matt’s peering over her shoulder, crunching on a prawn cracker.

‘Are those actual vegetables?’ he asks. ‘Fresh vegetables?’