I didn’t understand at the time what David was saying. Of course I didn’t – who could have imagined it? As it was, I was grateful for the sympathy.

‘It has been hard. Abby, she seems . . .’ I trailed off. It wasn’t wise to criticise his wife, I knew that. But David latched on to it.

‘I know. I know. It’s unbearable – you see what I . . . I mean, where even is she half the time? I don’t know.’

‘Auditions.’ I tested the milk on my wrist, as I’d been taught. It was OK. Carson flailed in my arms. ‘Shush, shush now. It’s almost ready.’

‘Auditions? Huh. She’s pushing forty, that’s the dead zone for actresses . . . If she’s lucky she can start doing character parts in another five, ten years, but is she even good enough for that? I don’t know. I really don’t. But try to tell her that, to give up the goddamn yoga and aerobics and I don’t know what else, and stay here being a proper mom to her own kids . . . it’s like talking to a wall.’

‘I know. It’s hard.’ Of course, David wasn’t much of a parent to his children either, but I didn’t expect it, not back then. My internalised misogyny was strong. ‘She’s very . . . unsettled.’

‘She’s crazy, Casey. You should see the pills in the bathroom cabinet. Wow.’ I didn’t want to say I had seen them already.

‘Does she need some kind of help?’ I said. ‘I mean, a doctor or something?’

‘She won’t go,’ he growled. ‘Says she’s fine. Sometimes I think the only way is to end it all.’

I assumed he meant divorce and my heart began to beat with something close to fear: what did that mean for me and my job? And my chance of playing Miranda?

‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it’s not come to that.’

‘Tell me what else it would take?’

He was looking right at me and I didn’t want to meet his gaze. I wasn’t ready to have this conversation or look directly at what we’d been dancing around. The way he stared at me as I moved round the house.

‘I have to feed Carson.’

David followed me upstairs. The house was as quiet as a tomb, despite Madison and Abby being asleep up there. He stood in the doorway of the baby’s room as I settled into the armchair there, feeling as self-conscious as if I were about to breastfeed.

‘Poor baby,’ I whispered to Carson, as he found the teat of the bottle. ‘Poor, poor baby.’ He quietened, his hand reaching for the milk, one twined in my hair. David watched us, and I was afraid to look up at him.

‘You’re so good with him. So natural.’

‘He’s a good boy,’ I said.