By eight o’clock Irene had given breakfast to Agnes, who in the mornings only ever ate white bread with the crusts cut off and seedless strawberry jam; had taken Clem’s temperature – over a hundred, and she still had that smell of wet blanket; had listened to Sasha practising for her Grade One piano exam, her skinny legs in their stripy tights pressed against the pedals, her little fingers pedantically picking out the notes and the tip of her tongue sticking pinkly out of her pursed mouth; and had looked in on Adrian who was fast asleep on his back, his hand over his eyes, one foot poking out of the duvet cover and his breath catching in the back of his throat in a rumbling half-snore. She threw his dirty laundry into the basket in the corner, then, because she didn’t need to be in work till later, pulled some ancient trousers and top off the chair and some clean knickers and socks out of a drawer. He stirred, nearly woke, wrapped the duvet more firmly around him and turned his back to her. She felt a rumbling tremor of rage somewhere deep inside her but ignored it, and collected up the mugs half full of cold tea from his bedside table.