In this house of charades, Niamh pretends to do her homework while I arrange the rest of the flowers, then start dinner for my disunited family. On the outside looking in, there’s nothing to set us apart from anyone else: soft grey curtains are drawn against the darkness, the smell of caramelising onions fills the house, the serene sound of Classic FM floats in the air, the teenaged daughter reluctantly studies in her bedroom, the wife cooks dinner for the doctor husband, who’ll soon be home after another day of healing people. Ludicrous façades when, underneath, we barely speak to each other.

For a moment I imagine a different kind of life – one with honesty, laughter, and lightness, where love is demonstrated, not withheld or wielded with intent. My daydream is interrupted by the sound of a car outside. It pauses and a door slams before it drives away, the sound of footsteps on gravel drawing nearer. When the back door opens, it’s clear the day hasn’t improved Andrew’s mood. If anything, it’s worse.

‘You’re early.’ I’m icily polite, imagining he’s been stood up by his lover. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

‘Hardly,’ he snaps. ‘But I might have been, if I hadn’t had to sort the car out.’

‘Is it fixed?’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he bellows. ‘Didn’t you see it when you came in? You don’t give a shit, Elise. Why are there flowers everywhere?’

Because there is more to life than vile deception and anger. Remember beauty, Andrew? How the gentlest of touches feels? How it is to love and be loved?

‘I wanted to cheer up the house. You know I hate winter. Dinner will be about twenty minutes.’ Speaking as calmly as I can, I go to the fridge and pour a glass of white wine, but he’s already storming through to the living room. He comes back seconds later, slamming something down on the counter behind me; I hear the splintering of glass.

‘Can’t we have one fucking room without fucking flowers?’ As he marches out, I turn to see the vase that used to belong to my grandmother, its crystal dulled by age. There’s a jagged crack down one side, from which water is seeping. It pools on the counter before running onto the floor.

Ripping out the flowers I arranged only a little while ago, I drop them on the worktop, then empty the vase and throw it away, trying to ignore my rush of anger. The flowers are still scattered and my fury with my husband barely muted by the time Niamh comes downstairs. Her cool eyes skim over the stems before settling on me, her face impenetrable. I wonder if she heard the way Andrew spoke to me just now, or the shattering of glass. Of course she did. How could she possibly not have?