‘Yes now.’ I don’t budge. ‘For fuck’s sake, Andrew. Why are we doing this?’

As he laughs cynically, I stare at him, trying to discern even the faintest trace of the man I fell in love with twenty years ago. But he doesn’t exist anymore. ‘Oh, I think you know the answer to that.’

Leaning down, I snatch his phone away. ‘The very least you could do is show me some respect,’ I hiss, keeping my voice low to prevent Niamh from hearing. ‘I know you don’t care about me, but what about Niamh? She sees the way you treat me. She sees everything. You could make an effort for once, for her sake, instead of texting one of your sluts.’ The word is unfamiliar on my tongue, but I’m driven by the desire for a reaction from him.

Standing up, he twists his phone out of my hand. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

His words are loaded with contempt and I stand there a moment longer, unfairness washing over me, followed by frustration that we can’t even hold a civil conversation, before I give up and walk away. On my way back to the kitchen, I glimpse a movement at the top of the stairs and look up to catch the back of Niamh’s head before she closes her bedroom door. If there was any closeness between us, I would go up there and talk to her, reassure her that everything’s fine, that Andrew’s just cross about what happened to the car tyres this morning. We could even laugh about it – a shared moment between a mother and her daughter. We both know what he’s like.

But as well as fuelling self-doubt, my abusive marriage has destroyed our mother–child relationship. I can’t lie to her, can’t tell her platitudes that neither of us believe, because Niamh’s smart and she’d see through it. She knows what’s going on, but we’re too distanced for me to talk to her about it. Far easier for us both to extend this silence.

Niamh

My parents’ marriage falls another step towards ruin, and I wonder again why they stay together. But, as always, my mother says nothing.

I don’t see Hollie again until Saturday, when she comes over after making sure my parents won’t be there. Her eyes hold mine, making contact yet telling me nothing.

‘D’you want a Coke?’ When she nods, I get a couple from the fridge, passing one to her.

She pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and perches on it. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ For once, she isn’t theatrical. ‘Too many things are too wrong.’

Not sure what to say, I watch her.