While in Joanna’s room, I’d looked up pictures of kidney stones. I saw one that had been photographed next to a coin, for scale. The thing was almost as big as the coin, and shaped like an arrowhead. I didn’t mention this to Ian.

The doctor was not wrong about Ian falling asleep. That day, a bleak, overcast winter day where the windows fogged with condensation, Ian put on the TV and promptly fell asleep in front of it. I was familiar with all the programs and the order in which they unfolded: morning chat show, news, a black and white movie in which everyone was beautiful but not famous enough for me to recognise. Then more news, followed by seventies sitcoms with saturated mustards and oranges and browns.

This is what played in the background while I took the opportunity to make a leisurely tour around the house. I looked through the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, stippled my fingers along the bookshelves. I leafed through some papers on Ian’s desk: invoices. I almost laughed when I saw the figures; I would never have that much money in my life.

I wasn’t hoping to come across the photos of Mrs Morton – at least that’s what I told myself. So I shouldn’t have been disappointed that I couldn’t find them.

After checking Ian was still deeply asleep, his snores rich and regular, I risked sneaking into his bedroom. I opened the bedside drawer and inventoried the contents with interest: earplugs, Vaporub, an old pair of glasses, more antacids, a yellowed, foxed copy of The Joy of Sex.

I sat on the bed and lingered over the illustrations in the book: here was a bearded, shaggy man, here a bemused woman displaying a lush isthmus of underarm hair. Had the Mortons used this book? Had one brusquely read out instructions while the other hauled their knees and hips into position?

By primetime, Ian was sitting up.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

‘Better,’ he said. He peeled himself from the couch with difficulty, wiping the drool from his cheek. ‘What’s for dinner?’