He picked up the fork from my plate and lifted a piece of pastry crust to my mouth. At first I shook my head, but he nudged it against my lips and to please him I opened my mouth. He pushed the fork between my teeth, then tilted it. I carried on crying while I ate, the piece of pastry becoming glutinous in my mouth. ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching out and stroking my hair. ‘It’s okay, you were drunk, that’s all. If the old girl can’t get drunk on her birthday then when can she? Everyone behaves badly when they’re drunk. It doesn’t matter, okay? It’s no big deal.’

He lifted the fork again. I shook my head, again. Again, he insisted. ‘Honestly, Lisa,’ he said as he fed me. ‘You don’t half get melodramatic sometimes … it was just a drunk night out, it really isn’t that big a deal …’

I cried a bit more and he gave up feeding me. He rose from his seat, came and stood by me, bent and kissed the top of my head. ‘Go and sit on the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll clear up.’

I nodded, tears still running down my face. He helped me to the sofa as if I were an invalid, lifted my feet up onto it. I put my hand over my face. ‘I’m just so tired …’ I sobbed.

He returned to the kitchen and brought me a glass of water. ‘Drink this. All of it.’

He went straight through to the bathroom and I heard the water begin to run. Then I heard him in the bedroom, moving around, then he came back out, went to the kitchenette and opened a drawer, returned to the bathroom.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, sitting up a little. I had stopped crying.

‘Running you a bath,’ he said as he went back in. He was in there for a while, then I heard the sound of him turning off the taps, the heavy squeak they made. That bath never took long to fill. It was a small bath.

He came back out, went back into the kitchen and started clearing the table. ‘Go on,’ he said softly, ‘I’ll wash up, you go and have your bath.’