Knowing she shouldn’t really, she bundled as much as she could of it together, piled it on to a shirt to make a bag and carried it downstairs. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn’t woken. She could get on better without him.

She switched on the radio, tied a couple of tea towels round her waist to save her jeans from getting soaked and set to work.

She should have gone to the shop for rubber gloves, she realised, but as that would involve a lot of questions when she got there, and finding the key before she went, she did without. She certainly couldn’t face having to clamber back in through the window again.

Her recycling soul meant she would have to wash the baked-bean cans but there was a lot to tackle before she had to worry about them. She worked out the washing machine and filled it, holding her breath as she stuffed the clothes into it. Once that was chugging away she turned her attention to the rest of the kitchen. She simply couldn’t bear to leave it in this state for a moment longer and she might as well make herself useful until Dermot finally woke up. She didn’t like to admit to herself she was doing it because she cared.

It was a feat of organisation: finding somewhere to put the dirty things and then the clean ones. No wonder Dermot had resorted to the floor. She opened the window and turned on the hot tap. When hot water did emerge she offered a prayer of thanksgiving, doubled when she also found washing-up liquid. If she hadn’t had that she’d have had to go to the shop. Now she’d started, she really wanted the kitchen to gleam before Dermot woke.

When she’d dealt with the kitchen, the bathroom (which was worse than the kitchen, in a way) and had vacuumed the sitting room, she went up to the bedroom and said Dermot’s name several times. He still didn’t stir. Sighing loudly, she stamped down the stairs. She would brave the shop and the questioning. There was absolutely nothing in the fridge or the cupboards and Dermot was bound to be hungry when he woke up – she didn’t fancy the idea of facing a hungry, feral Dermot without food on hand to calm him. It would be her peace-offering – even if she hadn’t been the one who’d gone to the press.

She left the front door on the latch and headed down the lane. She was lucky. The shop was full of people, all talking away. She was able to slip among the aisles, tossing things into her basket. The girl at the till rang them up without much in the way of chat. It was possible that she just looked like a woman on holiday, stocking up her holiday cottage.