Silence. Peter peered at his son in the dim light of the Anglepoise lamp; he was asleep at last. He tucked the duvet around Joey’s shoulders and sat for a moment, staring at the gleam of his ash blond hair and the long blond lashes lying on his pale cheeks. He loved the boy so much, if only Marianne . . . But he mustn’t think like that, the past was done, buried.

Sitting in the semi-darkness, he was unable to stop himself going over and over it in his mind; the anger and hatred, the terrible things that were said, the dragging sense of loss . . . and the last time he had seen Marianne alone. She was so flippant, sometimes he could strangle her . . . He knew he could never let it rest until she told him the truth. She was pregnant again and, from Peter’s calculations, he knew that he could be the baby’s father.

Jane was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. When Peter came to bed, needing her, needing someone, he found her flat out, snoring lightly. Suddenly angry, he threw his dressing-gown off, climbed in beside her and thumped his pillow.

She shot up, blinking in panic, then collapsed with a moan. With her eyes still closed, she mumbled, “Whassa-matter with you?”

“Every night’s the same. You’re exhausted, asleep before I’ve even cleaned my teeth . . .”

She rolled towards him and opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Pete.”

“You make me feel guilty if I so much as touch you. We haven’t made love for . . . I dunno how long, I hardly see you. And when I do see you, you’re always knackered. Our relationship stinks!”

Tentatively, Jane put out a hand and stroked his chest. “I love you.”

“You do? But if this—” he lifted her pillow and brought out her beeper—“If this goes off, I don’t exist! You’re always either giving someone a bollocking on the phone or buried in files.”

He switched off his bedside light, plunging them into darkness, and lay down, not touching her. Jane giggled, “You’re right! I’m sorry, I will make more time for us. . . .”

He felt her moving beside him. A moment later, her nightdress flew across the room.

“There! Just to prove I’m not a frigid old bag . . .”

Peter smiled and propped himself on one elbow, reached for her.

“Daddy?” said a little voice. Framed in the light from the hall, Joey peered into the room. “Daddy . . . ?”

Pulling the duvet over her head, Jane cracked up, with laughter. “Ignore him, he’ll go away . . . Go back to bed, Joey!”

Thinking it was a game, Joey snorted with laughter and jumped on the bed, trying to pull the quilt away from her.

“Don’t, Joey! Go back to bed! Joey!”

He tried to climb into the bed, but Jane hung on. “Joey, will you pass me my nightdress?”

“Why?”