“You could try reading one of those books I bought,” she said, nodding to the pile of jauntily titled baby bibles placed on the recessed shelf, Post-it notes sticking out marking particularly good bits she wanted him to read. The Truly Happy Baby, Why Love Matters, The Baby Owner’s Manual. She’d even bought The Expectant Dad’s Handbook, but she’d never even seen him pick it up.

“Ha, yeah,” said Patrick, rolling his eyes. Lauren felt something opening up between them. Something unfixable, like cracking glass. He sat on the edge of the bed and took one of Morgan’s feet in his palm.

“This one likes me, though. Don’t you?” He lifted Morgan from Lauren’s arms and held him close, wrapping him in his own. For a brief moment she felt something like pride. He would be a good daddy. He just needed a bit of guidance. “What’s for tea?” said Patrick. He was still looking at Morgan, so it took Lauren a second to register that he was talking to her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lauren. “What do you fancy? Chinese?”

His dissatisfied face made her think again of Riley’s. “We can’t live on take-out, Lauren.”

Riley shrieked, loud enough to make them both wince and turn towards him. Then Patrick turned back towards Lauren and shook his head. “Chinese,” he said, and, “Jesus,” under his breath. He stood up and went downstairs, taking Morgan with him. From within her nest she heard him cross the kitchen, open the fridge, whisper an expletive.

He marched back to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, “There’s absolutely nothing in, Lauren.”

Lauren did not move, or speak. She lay on the bed, face towards the window. The sky was purplish in places, streaked with clouds. The decimated ski village was in shadow. Riley had fallen asleep. The house thrummed with Patrick’s rage, which had whipped up from nothing when he realised how pathetic she was; how she had failed. She ought to be able to shop, to go downstairs, to make the dinner. Other people managed; Cindy managed. Tears slipped down Lauren’s cheek, wetting the pillow.

Patrick came thundering upstairs. The baby, a startled expression on his face, was still gripped in his left arm. “You should have called me, I would have dropped in to the shops on my way home.”

“I would have called,” she said, not looking at him, “but I thought you’d be cross with me.”

“I wouldn’t, why would you think that?”

He was almost yelling now.

“I think it because you keep saying I need to get out, get to the shops. I didn’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly, darling.”

That phrase again. She no longer felt sorry, only annoyed.