Then she left the flat, pulling the door softly behind her, making it down the stairs with her chin still held high, making it into the street, one foot in front of the other, the breeze on her burning cheeks and now a few drops of rain landing in her hair. She was still giggling slightly, though her throat hurt and her chest ached.

She went home and paid the babysitter, with extra thrown in for the inconvenience, and she checked on the children, safe in their bedrooms, who’d never realized she’d been away at all.

It was a long night before the dawn. She sat on the sofa, her knees up under her chin and her arms wrapped around them. Just sat. The rain strengthened and blew in squalls across the garden, then died down again. Her eyes felt hard and dry, like hot coals in her skull. She stared out into the gloom. The crackling, scorching rage had gone. Her throat ached, her head throbbed, and her limbs were chilly and stiff. Time passed. It always does, even when you can’t feel its movement because the minutes that are rushing past you are ones of heavy, ceaseless darkness. Like looking out of a train window at night and for a moment you think you’ve stopped, until you feel the tremor of the engine in your body. She clasped her knees tighter. She rocked herself gently. Time passes.

The sky lightened imperceptibly, until it was a streaked grey, with pale blue on the horizon. Somewhere a foolish rooster crowed. Somewhere a car door slammed. The street lights went off. The radiators creaked into inefficient life. Upstairs, someone coughed several times.

Irene stood up. Her limbs felt rusted. She put the kettle on, splashed water over her face, and went up the stairs. She went into Sasha’s room and kissed her daughter on her smooth cheek.

‘Rise and shine,’ she said cheerfully, pulling open the curtains. ‘It’s going to be a lovely day.’

‘Dearest Jem, Adrian has been having an affair. And now he has left me.’

Short and to the point, she thought. What else was there to say?

She picked up her violin, tightened the bow, rubbed rosin up and down it, and played ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. She hated that fucking tune.

‘Oh God. Poor Irene. After everything.’

‘Yeah. I know.’

‘How do you know? Have you talked to her?’

‘She sent me an e-mail. I tried to call but it’s permanently engaged. She’s probably taken the phone off the hook.’

‘Did she say how she was?’

‘No. It was a very brief message. Just that he’s been having an affair and now he’s left.’

‘You’ve known for a bit that something was wrong.’

‘Mmm. At least, I thought it was.’

‘At least it’s out in the open now.’

‘I hope she’ll talk about it.’

‘If she will with anyone, it’d be you.’