‘Mate, magnificent job. Bloody brilliant.’

I feel like something vital has torn in my throat, as if all the spiky words I’ve swallowed back, for years, have ripped into my flesh. But I know if I said that there are so many people who are good at what they do, who never hear a word of praise because they aren’t on television, who never get slapped on the back at dinner parties or treated like rock stars because they’re busy working in emergency wards, or teaching kids how to read, or collecting our garbage – or using their engineering degree to calculate how many tiles are needed per square foot of kitchen wall . . . Pointless. My words stick in my gullet, where they fester and burn. I won’t tell Jim I’m going to uni. The approval I wanted seems unsavoury now, as though his sanctioning my choice would grant him some ownership of it. And I don’t want that – this is mine.

‘Abby?’ Mark says.

‘What? Sorry.’

‘No worries,’ Jim says. ‘Grab us a couple more, Karen?’ He holds up an empty bottle.

‘Want to give her a hand, Abby?’ Mark asks.

‘Carrying beer?’ But I look from Jim to Mark and realise I don’t want to stay at the table anyway. ‘Sure.’

When we return to the table, Jim speaks with fresh vigour. He wants me on script. ‘You’re a lucky woman, Abigail. To be the first to hear these things he gets up to. Incredible stuff.’ He holds my gaze, stern, waiting. ‘Quite the husband you’ve got here.’

I offer him the smallest smile, and Mark notices our stand-off. ‘Time to head home, I think. We have a busy Sunday ahead of us.’

‘Pig.’ I flop into the car seat and slam the door. ‘He’s a pig. He treats me and Karen like we’re his servants – his servants and your fan club. And you go along with it.’

‘No, I don’t. I tried to keep the night civil. How much have you had to drink?’

‘Not nearly enough.’

I’m still scratchy after we’ve arrived home, after I’ve stomped to the bedroom and clumsily made my way into my nightie. I’m sure I’ve woken Dad, don’t even know if Charlie is here. But no sound from the kids. All the while, Mark is going about his night’s rituals and ablutions more slowly than usual. His composure incenses me. I’m dealing with something more enormous than he or Jim could imagine, and without an audience.

Mark walks into the bedroom, wiping his face dry. ‘Jim can be a clod. Don’t take it to heart. It was good to see Karen, wasn’t it?’

‘No, it wasn’t good to see her. There’s no solidarity in humiliation.’

‘Bit dramatic.’

I throw my hairbrush at him, then apologise, then cry. I’m angry at Jim’s smugness, Mark’s relaxed self-assuredness, at my self-pity, Charlie’s dependence, Dad’s misery. I’m scared of being discovered. I’m scared of having my future snatched from me, scared I’m losing my mind. And I can’t say any of this to my husband.