Amy sits on the bed and watches as her husband pulls the tie from his neck and reaches for the one she suggests. He flips the collar up and wraps it round, knots it expertly, then turns for her approval.

‘Much better,’ she says, and tilts her face up for a kiss.

He bends down and pecks her lightly on the lips.

‘We need to hurry up, or we’ll be late,’ Jonathan says.

‘Everyone’s always late. This is Kal, remember?’

‘True.’ He sits next to her on the bed, then slumps backwards. ‘Oh god, and all his awful workmates are going to be there. All posh and braying.’

‘Have a few drinks and you’ll be fine.’ Amy stands up and checks her reflection in the mirror, feeling the jitters rise in her stomach again. She presses a finger tentatively against the red and blue bruise blooming on her forehead.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ Jonathan asks.

She glances back at her husband, lying on the bed, watching her.

‘It’s fine.’ She takes a long breath in. ‘What do you want to drink? I’ll fetch one to get you started.’

‘You sure?’ Jonathan sits up, his forehead furrowed. She’s complained about his drinking in the past; it’s no wonder he’s surprised.

She shrugs, pretending it doesn’t bother her. ‘I can put up with your drunken slurring for one night. What do you want?’

‘We got any orange?’ he asks. Amy nods. ‘An Old Fashioned then.’

She walks out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen. It’s spotless – draining board clear, surfaces empty and wiped down – just as she likes it. She sees a plate on the side and a few toast crumbs left by Jonathan, and suppresses a ripple of irritation.

Amy remembers her appointment earlier that day. Following the nurse into the consulting room. Holding out her arm as she was prodded and poked, a sharp sting as the needle was pushed into her skin. She had watched fascinated as the dark red blood saturated each one, filling four vials.

The whole process had taken less than five minutes; very transactional, much like her husband’s.