At the kitchen cupboard that served as a drinks cabinet, Lucas hesitated again, while knowing the cause was lost. A lifetime of eager but careful consumption meant he knew exactly what it contained. Three student years of binge-drinking had taught him the necessity of such watchfulness, along with the ghoulish adage that the sins of the father could be passed on to the son. Genetics or psychology, it made no difference – when he drank, he wanted more. He wanted, quite simply, not to have to stop. Learning how to stop had been like mastering the art of walking a tightrope. Gradually, the lapsing binges had lessened and collegiate life – and Esther – had filled the gap. The period after Esther left had been hard, but he had managed. And then Heidi had stepped into his life, removing the desire and the danger completely.

Lucas yanked open the cupboard. In recent days, its contents had drastically diminished. A half bottle of gin, the slugs of brandy, a couple of bottles of red, one of white, along with some unpleasantly sweet sherry, had all been consumed, Lucas reasoning that to run down existing stocks was both ‘allowed’ and, in the current stressful circumstances, entirely reasonable. Just two bottles remained, both tucked at the back behind some cartons of long-life juice, which had been bought for and ignored by Dylan: a bottle of Chateau Marjosse, secured thanks to a college sale of bin-ends the previous Christmas, and an unopened Glenfiddich, gifted by a grateful postgrad in the spring. The best till last, and how fitting, Lucas mused darkly, carrying both bottles through to the sitting room and then going back for a bottle opener, the largest of his wine glasses, and a lead-crystal tumbler. The tumbler, sole survivor of a wedding set from Esther’s parents, had acquired a small chip on its rim, he observed as he set it down, sadness welling up from nowhere.

It made sense to start with the wine. A little excited now – here was something to do after all, something that would make him feel better – Lucas fetched his biscuit tin, glad to see it contained two old digestives and some broken crackers. He shovelled them into his mouth as he started to drink, trying to keep to sips and failing. Swig after swig, it was as easy on the throat as Ribena. The alcohol hit his bloodstream with a rush. Once the bottle was empty, he lowered himself to the floor and lay spreadeagled on his back. The ceiling, painted white during his refurb, was starting to crack, he saw, hairline fractures, visible only because of his worsening – lengthening – eyesight.