They lived in this expensive mausoleum, and the saddest thing of all was that this house, which he had bought because she had loved it so much, was now her prison. They couldn’t sell it, couldn’t make their money back – she had spent so much on it that to try and sell it now would mean they would be thousands of pounds out of pocket. The expensive kitchen, which he had known at the time was too good for a semi-detached house in Ilford, had been paid for with what amounted to a second mortgage. When you added in to all that the carpets, curtains, the fitted wardrobes, the bathroom with its cast iron bath, and the new central-heating system, they were up to their eyebrows in hock.

‘No, Cynthia, I ain’t stupid. I was stupid, though, when I let you borrow money like it was going out of fashion. But I wanted you to be happy, and you were only happy when you were spending money. Well, we can’t sell this drum and make a profit on it because the designer kitchen and bathroom that cost the national debt hasn’t actually put a fucking bean on this place! It’s still just a semi in Ilford, in Essex. And we still have to pay it all off. So, thanks to you, and your fucking wanting, we’ll still be here when we’re fucking seventy.’

Cynthia looked at her husband, and she felt the hatred rising up inside her. She looked at his weak features, his pale eyes, nondescript brown hair and his doughy body. She’d thought him handsome once. Now all she saw was that he was useless, useless and weak. She felt like her life was over. She had tied herself to a man who would never ever be even remotely important to her, or anyone else for that matter. She had two children, children who had half of this man inside them, children who, if she wasn’t careful, would grow up to be as useless and nondescript as he was.

‘We’re insured, aren’t we? I made sure of that much. Use your fucking loaf for once in your life!’