He turned his back to me again. ‘Do you want to wash or dry?’ The noise of water flowing from the tap and the squirt of washing-up liquid filled the silence. Until he said, ‘I think you should wash. I mean, I did make the fucking dinner after all.’ The ceramic slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor. Smash. White, sticky shards everywhere. He looked down. Didn’t move. Until he reached for the unopened bottle of Sauvignon, unscrewed the lid, poured a huge glass and downed it like water on a hot summer’s day.

I placed the DVD on the table, then knelt next to him. Collecting the smaller fragments of the crockery within the largest curved piece. He poured another glass, gesturing to ask if I wanted some. I shook my head and continued collecting the shards. Aware he was watching me, sipping. I couldn’t look at him. Perturbed at what I knew. What he knew.

‘Can’t we talk about this, Dale? It’s . . . It just took me by surprise, that’s all.’

‘Why? Why would you be surprised?’

I stood and walked over to the bin. The pieces rattled as they fell inside. ‘Because I—’

‘Is it because I tell you how much I love you and need you all the time? Because I do tell you that, don’t I? You not so much, though, hey? Is it because all I do is care for you and look after you? Is that why you’re so fucking surprised?’

‘I just didn’t think we were there.’ I bent down again for the dustpan and brush. Remained on the floor, moving on my knees over to the residue and dust.

He was now sitting at the table, shuffling the box around his hand like a stress ball. ‘Where are we, Constance?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if we’re not there, where are we?’

I swept the debris into the pan, then dared to stand, resting my back against the worktop. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

‘It was my grandmother’s. I told Mum and Dad I was going to ask you. They were so happy that I was doing something right for once. They were actually proud of me. Then she went upstairs and returned with it . . . said she wanted you to have it.’ Eyes glazed, he downed the remainder of the wine left in the glass. The mottled deep pink of his cheeks spread down his neck.

‘Dale . . . don’t drink more. Please . . . let’s just talk about it.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my fucking wife, you know.’ He laughed. ‘Do you get it? You’re not my wife?’

I emptied the pan into the bin and remained facing the wall. ‘I think I should go to Edward’s. It’s best if I leave you be tonight.’