‘Oh God – let’s not have this conversation. I’ve got to go. Listen, I didn’t mean to sound disapproving. I’m just a bit tired. And tired of being tired all the time.’ She stopped abruptly, before the anger built up again.

‘Yeah.’ He made an effort. ‘Me too. Is it very cold outside?’

‘Bitter. Wait! I’m coming!’ she yelled over her shoulder as a child called.

‘Irene.’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Just sorry. You know.’

‘Yeah.’

He held out his arms and she went over and leant down and kissed him on the forehead, once and quickly, then pulled free.

He had a shower and shaved, nicking his cheek with his unsteady morning-after hands, and took two Paracetamol; then he had a large mug of coffee with hot milk, a glass of orange juice, toast and the last scrapings of marmalade from the jar. He opened his bank statement, which made him wince and which he crumpled up and threw into the overflowing bin. Then he walked down the street, in hail that spat against his cheeks, to the underground station and took the train to Covent Garden. Christmas lights hung along the streets; there was a huge tree in the piazza and every shop window glittered with decorations. Men and women fought their way through the weather with bulging shopping bags. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Everyone looked prosperous and purposeful, except the man huddled outside the tube station selling the Big Issue. Adrian bought a newspaper and had another coffee in a café that had sofas and armchairs downstairs. He read the paper from front to back, slowly, then, with a sudden burst of decisive speed, he got up and went into a shop he’d seen earlier and spent a ludicrous amount of money on a pair of thin leather gloves with a small button on the cuff.

Frankie was a solicitor for a firm that did house sales, divorces and wills – all the mundane traumas of ordinary life. Her speciality was conveyancing; Irene always said if they ever managed to move house, they should use her. Adrian realized, as he went through the revolving doors into the vast lobby where security guards handed out plastic passes, that she might be a decade younger than him, with a girlish giggle, but she probably earned four or five times more than him. He felt shabby, middle-aged and wretched and for a moment he thought about turning back, but even as he thought it, he was giving his name to the receptionist who was picking up the phone, punching in a number, saying to the person who answered it that a Mr Adrian Hall was downstairs to see her.

‘She’ll be with you in a few minutes. Take a seat.’