And Dan tried to keep things together, and hear her out, and answer her questions, while still telling her as little as possible, because it felt like a different kind of betrayal to lay bare the facts and his feelings for Alison, to expose her to Katelin’s fury with no right of reply. He didn’t mention the songs, couldn’t expose them to her contempt, so he held them close and treasured what they’d meant to him, although he couldn’t listen to them now.

Two months in, Katelin rang Alex and told him everything, and this was hard to excuse. She’d drunk too much one evening, alone in the house, when the damage was still fresh, and after a few hours with only her rage and pain for company, she’d concluded that their son should know the truth about his father. By the time Dan got home, she was a shivering wreck of profound regret, because Alex had been terribly, uncharacteristically quiet, had asked no questions, none at all, just listened for a couple of minutes to her slurred account of the Australian adventure, then said, ‘Shit, Mum, sorry, I can’t do this,’ and hung up.

‘I didn’t mean to tell him!’ she wailed later, pummelling her fists against Dan’s chest. ‘You made me do it. He hates me now, and I wanted him to hate you.’

‘He doesn’t hate you,’ Dan said. ‘He adores you. He just doesn’t need to hear about any of this. I’ll talk to him. It’s going to be fine.’

‘Why are you so fucking calm?’ she screamed.

‘One of us has to be,’ he said, and he held her for as long as it took for her to remember the world hadn’t ended, it had only changed for ever.