She shouldn’t raise her voice or stand with her hands on her hips, a parody of a shrewish wife, but he looks so complacent. Stories. Homemade cake. A day trip then, not a workshop, money gone to waste. She is tired, so tired she can hardly stand. The website had crashed at work, a drunk guest had been insulting then a woman told her to collect her case as though she were a porter, not a receptionist. She said nothing in case she lost her temper, but then the woman complained about her silence anyway.

‘It’s imperative we engage with the clients.’ The hotel manager, a plump little man, had inspected her face and, more slowly, her body. She had walked away, swallowing rage.

‘They had fun,’ Martin replies mildly. ‘That’s the main thing.’

‘The main thing is his work; he’ll have exams to pass one day.’

‘You don’t have to follow every rule in the book—’

‘Yes, we do.’ She turns away and walks into the kitchen; he should know why Blake and Charley have to follow rules, that she does too. Ten minutes ago the tall bloke had stepped out from a doorway in front of her as she reached the entrance of the building.

‘What do you think you’re doing here, bitch?’ he’d muttered, standing close enough for her to catch that nail-polish smell of cocaine.

She walked round him, didn’t reply, didn’t look back and didn’t run, though her heart had been thudding in her mouth. It wasn’t dark, she was wearing work clothes, her hair was tied back, the keys had been ready in her hand. She’d been following every bloody rule in the book; her grandfather had made her learn them off by heart. The youth laughed as he watched her go, the type who didn’t give a fuck about rules.

Martin follows her to the kitchen and pours two glasses of wine, offers her one.

‘We can’t afford wine.’

‘We ought to celebrate, it’s been a good day.’

‘Let’s celebrate when something good actually happens.’ She dumps the dirty supper plates and forks in the sink and begins to wash them.

‘The kids had a great time and I wrote five hundred words this morning.’ He raises his glass, smiling. ‘Isn’t that good enough?’

‘Good as in when your next book sells,’ she continues, scrubbing the forks. Or my first one does, she adds silently.

He doesn’t reply; there’s nothing to say. He knows the prize money has almost gone and her earnings are barely enough. She puts the cutlery on the draining board, takes the wet clothes from the washing machine and hangs them on the rack. She doesn’t want to discuss her writing, not yet, it feels safer that way. She pulls the broom from the cupboard and starts sweeping up the crumbs.