At least the jar of onion marmalade is brand-new, with no spurious sentimental value.

But the lid won’t budge. I wrap the tea towel around the top and twist until my palm hurts. I grunt, hoping that might give me an extra burst of Neanderthal strength, but it still doesn’t bloody budge.

My hand moves before my brain registers what I’m doing.

The jar seems to fall in slow motion towards the centre of the kitchen floor, and I think it’s not going to break at all.

Until it explodes everywhere.

Shards of glass shatter and the lid tinkles on the wood. Dollops of vinegary jam spread like long brown worms.

‘Fuck YOU!’

I grab the pack of biscuits and tip the crackers onto the floor. Stamp up and down on the ones that have landed away from the glass.

‘Why did you have to leave me, you bastard?’

STAMP!

‘Why couldn’t you have listened to me and gone to see a fucking doctor?’

Now I see Dan in my head. STAMP!

‘Why couldn’t you have got your shit together by now? I love you, you arsehole – you could have been the second love of my sodding life!’

I look up and see Bear cowering in the hallway. He must have heard and come to investigate. He’s shaking.

‘Good boy,’ I say, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. ‘Stay back, Bear. Everything’s all right. Everything is fine.’

I wonder if not understanding the words means he can hear the lie more clearly.

He licks his nose and stares up at me, those brown eyes full of uncertainty. What was that about?

I wish I knew, Bear.

The floor is a horrible sticky mess. It’ll stain the wood if I leave it, so I should get cracking, remove the glass, wipe up the marmalade, mop it all clean again.

But instead I step away, close the kitchen door to shut in the debris and lift my squirming dog into my arms. He usually fights, but instead Bear licks my nose, as though it’s the best way he can think of to make me – and him – feel better.

And I start to cry. Rage? Loneliness? Hormones?

It doesn’t matter. The tears know why they’re here. I simply have to let them fall.

When I’m cried out and my body’s stopped throbbing, I sit on my balcony and watch the early evening life: families picnicking on wet grass, groups of teenagers flirting and drinking and smoking illicit cigarettes.

Bear lies at my feet, snoring. As far as he’s concerned, the crisis has passed.

I take my phone, check for messages. There’s one from Isabel, the first since we argued a fortnight ago:

Dear Gemma, I wanted to check how you are. I’m here, if you want to talk.

Without weighing up the pros and cons, I call her number.

‘Do you ever get angry, Isabel?’

She says nothing for a few seconds. ‘Oh yes.’

‘With Andrew, or with your husband?’