Outside, the night sounds of Hackney were growing. Music from cars, laughter, shouts, doors slamming, footsteps pounding past the house. Through the walls, she could hear thrumming bass notes. Later, there would probably be police sirens and breaking glass as well. Irene imagined people all over London getting ready to go out, stuffing money and drugs in their pockets, picking up their keys, taking a last look at their reflections in the mirror before leaving. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like. She took a can of beer from the fridge, pulled its ring-top open and licked at the smoking tongue of foam that snaked out. Then she called Karen. They talked about the party Irene had missed, how Larry had been sick on the doorstep and how Terry and Chris had had a stand-up argument; and they talked about the baby Sarah had had, and made an arrangement to meet on Sunday. Irene could hear Mac in the background, and the piping voice of a child.

She put the phone down and then she turned on the computer that stood in the corner of the living room and wrote an e-mail to Jem. Sometimes you can write the things you can’t bring yourself to say out loud: ‘Adrian’s out somewhere and the girls are all in bed and I’m feeling a bit down this evening. I don’t know why. Nothing’s quite the way I imagined it would be when I was young, when you first met me.’ She didn’t send it though. She looked at the words for a few minutes, screwed up her face in self-disgust, and pressed the delete button.

Adrian came in after ten. She heard the front door open and slam shut and then the sound of him wiping his boots on the mat in the hall.