By the time Nick’s key turned in the lock, I was an hour into some soporific crime drama with a sage, hangdog detective in a wide-brimmed hat wandering around Italian vineyards. He leaned down to my prone body, slumped on the sofa, and kissed me full on the lips.

‘You look like a wife in need of a drink.’

The irony. My hangdog detective could’ve pointed out the watertight evidence we’d received that seeking relief in alcohol was the last habit our family needed to indulge. He came back from the kitchen with two brimming glasses of Chablis and some salty almonds in a ceramic bowl. I took a deep glug, despite my irritation with him. His unexplained absences, his refusal to metabolize any more worry than the amount I spoon-fed him. I stopped myself. He was caring for me, in his own way, wasn’t he? We all have different languages for love: the trick was to appreciate his, rather than complaining about the ones he wasn’t fluent in.

‘We got her into bed between us,’ I said, the lie as light as gossamer. ‘It’s not nearly as bad as last time. She can sleep it off. I told Sophie to stay, keep an eye on her.’

‘Well done, darling,’ said Nick, picking up my hand in his. His wedding ring glinted: it felt so progressive that he’d wanted to wear one when we tied the knot. ‘She’s a fucking disaster, isn’t she?’

I rolled my eyes, not trusting myself to speak.

‘You’ll get her back to see the therapist next week, yes?’ he asked, squeezing my hand with his. ‘At least we know we’re getting her help.’

I thought of Rachel’s blazing eyes as she screamed up at me from the cold tiles, Esther’s name reverberating around the cramped space. I sat up, almost dizzy, and took a handful of almonds.

‘We need to take it one day at a time,’ I said. I was the one to press my lips against his this time. His breath had that residual sourness that champagne always leaves, but I overrode the thought. Something I was good at. ‘At least the other two are thriving.’

‘Exactly,’ said Nick, visibly comforted by the thought. It was our constant refrain, a comfort blanket that would one day come to smother us. He pushed me backwards against the cushions, and I allowed my body to yield to him. ‘I love you,’ he muttered into my hair, as his hand sought out the zip that ran down the length of my back.

‘I love you, too,’ I said, kissing him back with an impressive degree of fervour.

I think I even fooled myself.

RACHEL