I am frozen by what I see, appalled by this ugly, violent side to Dominic, one that jars with the Dominic I thought I knew. I hover, one hand pressed to my mouth, unsure whether to burst into the kitchen and put a stop to it when the slam of the front door makes me jump and I turn to see Kelly struggling through the doorway, her arms full of plastic bags that are full, if the smell is anything to go by, of takeaway curry. I move towards her and grab a bag from her.

‘Hey, Kelly,’ I say in a voice loud enough to alert Fran and Dominic to her presence, ‘this smells lovely!’ I push through into the kitchen where Fran and Dominic stand on either side of the table, barely looking at each other. Fran’s face is white and pinched, her nostrils flaring as she breathes deeply, her hands rubbing absently at the tops of her arms. ‘Kelly brought some food home,’ I say, stupidly.

‘Lovely.’ Dominic shoves his hands into his pockets, as Fran moves to the cupboard under the sink to get out a dustpan and brush.

‘Here, I’ll do that,’ I say, gently nudging her to one side.

‘Thank you.’ She gives me a wan smile and turns to Kelly. ‘I’m not terribly hungry, Kelly. Thank you, though. I might . . .’ She waves a hand towards the kitchen door and Kelly nods.

‘Of course, Fran. I’ll save you something for later.’ Kelly starts to bustle around the kitchen, pulling out plates and serving out dollops of rice as I finish sweeping the floor. I don’t know how she hasn’t picked up on the tense atmosphere that fills the kitchen; Dominic’s violence still seems to reverberate around the room.

There is a muted buzz as Fran’s phone on the counter lights up with the glow of an incoming text message, and I lean over and pick it up. I catch the first line of the text, under an unknown number, words of sympathy from someone.

‘I might go and check on her,’ I say, holding up the phone and avoiding Dominic’s gaze as he looks up at me from the table, a poppadom crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces between his fingers. He looks tired and drained, and despite what I just witnessed, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

Upstairs, Fran sits on the edge of Laurel’s bed, Bom gripped tightly in one hand. I go to sit next to her, a waft of Laurel’s scent rising up as I perch on the duvet.

‘You left your phone downstairs,’ I say, passing it to her.