The night Bea came back from work with the Italian leather holdall had been one of those bad days, not because of all the shit that came with selling houses, but the worse shit that came from not selling them; sitting in the office all day, feeling like he was rotting from the inside out. That night, he’d made some pasta while she had a shower and changed, and then they sat eating and looking at the bag she hadn’t meant to buy.

‘I’m so worried about Emma,’ said Bea.

‘Who?’

‘The girl today. In the shop.’

‘You can’t worry about everyone. What about you?’

‘I’m fine.’

They cleared the plates and turned out lights and took the leather holdall into the bedroom. They made love with it on the floor nearby and afterwards Dan reached down to pick it up and look at it.

‘This is quality,’ he said.

‘It should be.’

‘Was it a lot?’

‘No, it wasn’t bad.’

‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ said Dan.

‘I only bought it to make Veena feel better.’

‘Who’s Veena?’

‘The lady in the shop.’

‘Yeah, I think it’s a sign, though.’

They sat up late and talked. He tried to say how much he hated his job without sounding like he was just complaining, digging out the worst part of his feelings. She wanted to join in, and admitted her own stress, and that the responsibility for people frightened her. But then she remembered the reward it gave her, and felt like she was pretending. Her own problems felt unimportant when she thought of other people’s. She didn’t say that, she didn’t want to undermine him. He had no reward, he was in deficit to his life, paying out and getting nothing back. It all seemed tied together, his pain, and the pain of others, the mob greed and unhappiness. If they could take themselves out, somehow, get away, then maybe he could start afresh.

‘We could travel. Just a couple of months,’ she said. ‘Or three.’

‘Away?’ he said. ‘Away?’

He switched on the light and it shone straight down onto the red leather bag, making it glow brightly. She had said it without thinking, but looking at his face she realised she could not now take it back. Her words had voiced a need in him. His need not hers, to go back now would take something away from him. She knew she couldn’t do it.

Bea had a small tattoo of a flame on the back of her neck, under her hair. She’d got it in Prague on her eighteenth birthday, for Dante’s Beatrice. The flame was meant to be a source of inspiration and guidance but she thought it looked like an advertisement for British Gas. Dan loved it. To him, it was a sign they were fated to be together and that she was his guiding light. He would lift her hair and kiss the flame, between the top bump of her spine and the nape of her neck. He did it now.