He glanced at the TV set, but didn’t put it on. Cynthia didn’t think watching telly all the time was something nice people did. A good film or a documentary was fine, and News At Ten of course. But gameshows or comedy programmes were beneath her radar. She saw those as common, and common was what really sent her off her head.

It wasn’t easy being married to her and, even though he told himself that he was lucky a girl like her chose him, it was getting harder and harder to keep up that pretence. They were overstretched in every way – every half-penny was accounted for and, as much as he appreciated her housewifely acumen, he knew they were way over their heads in debt. Not that she wasn’t good with money – she was – but, all the same, he felt they could have lived much better if she didn’t feel this almighty urge to be something she wasn’t. She had such exacting standards and, though he knew she wanted a better life for them all, he felt at times they’d be much better off if she spent the money in other ways, like on a night out or a day at the seaside, not just on things she felt were needed for the home. They had the best house in the street, but still that wasn’t enough for her. She would never be content, he understood that now. The kitchen alone had cost a bloody fortune, and the carpets and curtains, all paid for on the weekly, were another drain on their resources.

Now she had the Christmas bug, had talked about having a goose and all other manner of expensive frippery. He knew she wanted the best for them, but it had to be stopped. She had to understand they couldn’t go on like this.

Cynthia came into the room, slipping in quietly, as if she had materialised out of thin air. Her quietness had been what had attracted him; she had seemed so self-contained, yet so vulnerable. Not that he really believed that any more. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that she was anything other than what she really was. A bully. His mother had warned him, but he had not been inclined to listen to her. Now he wished he had. But, as his old mum also said, hindsight was a wonderful thing.

Cynthia stood before him, her head slightly at an angle, and that tight little smile on her face. ‘I’m dishing up.’

He sighed heavily, and barely nodded in reply.

‘Are you all right?’

He sighed once more. ‘Not really. Brewster got it.’