Beth leans against the front door and breathes. She’s so tired, she thinks she could stay like that forever, but there’s too much to do. At least Simon took Luna for a walk before he left for work this morning, and it must have been quite a hike. While her eyes are staring adoringly at Beth through the sliding glass door that separates the entrance hall from the open-plan kitchen, her body is hardly moving, just her tail going up and down like a serpent dancing to a Nick Cave track. Beth pushes off, lines her trainers up in the shoe cupboard and goes to stroke the newest member of their family.

Beth was against the idea of getting a dog, but was outvoted, and they picked up their 8-week-old cockapoo from a breeder in Herefordshire in the summer. Beth has warmed up a bit since then; she likes the unconditional love and constant tail wagging that Luna provides, and the morning walk or run helps keep her in shape. But she still struggles with the muddy pawprints, the dog hair (whoever said poodle breeds don’t moult is misinformed) and the dog smell that seems to emanate from all four corners of the house.

As Beth crouches down to stroke Luna, she takes in the view of her kitchen. A lidless carton of butter littered with dark crumbs, a mug smeared with a coffee rim and Ava’s cloth tiger hanging over one of the two discarded cereal bowls. Twelve hours ago, her life was designer gin and tonics and Soho-style tapas. Now she’s exhausted and her house is a disaster zone. There’s a policeman’s business card on the island unit, and her body hasn’t quite stopped trembling. A surge of rage sweeps through her, anger with herself for letting things slide so badly.

She stacks the dishwasher, wipes the surfaces, polishes the appliances, runs bleach down the sink, and sweeps and mops the floor. She sprays and resprays the glass doors until every last smear is gone. By mid-morning, the kitchen looks perfect, but it’s not enough. So she starts on the cupboards, emptying them out, spraying and wiping, returning the contents according to shape and size, until the inside looks as immaculate as the outside.

But it’s still not enough.

With a sense of surrender, she walks up two flights of stairs and into her bedroom like a zombie. She tries not to look at the bed, but of course she can’t help it. With a surge of annoyance, she removes the throw, four pillows and six scatter cushions. She straightens up the duvet and methodically replaces the accessories one at a time. When it looks perfect, she allows herself to turn away and walk the few steps into her dressing room. She opens the wardrobe door, and finally a veil of relief floats over her.