‘Could I crush a garlic clove or something? Or chop an onion? Save you reaching for the Kleenex? And tomorrow night I’m going to cook.’ He turned his back on Esther’s double take to set about scything the large red onion that she had placed on the chopping board, converting it into the meticulous, gossamer-thin slices which, once upon a time, during early days of shared meal preparation, had provided easy fodder for ribbing. ‘Grilled prawns, or something simple. I could go to the fish market. Here, let me do that. This is ready for the frying pan.’ He pushed the board towards Esther and seized the masher she had just removed from its hook, along with the saucepan of potatoes, embarking on a pulverising so energetic that flecks of mash flew across the hob and up the wall tiles.

Esther had to suppress a prickle of irritation. He was trying. It certainly made a welcome change from working in his study until being summoned, and then taking so long to arrive the meal was half cold. She directed her energies to the carrots instead, swiping the peeler deep into their skins and mentioning the David Attenborough as a possible source of evening entertainment, tentatively, because Lucas was big on fighting the temptation to watch telly while eating.

That Lucas was making a serious effort only really dawned on her after the flamingos had finished strutting, when he took their plates and went to wash up without being asked. He returned with mugs of tea, saying he’d like the telly off if Esther didn’t mind, and what music would she like to listen to instead? Esther, disarmed, even a little suspicious, said Debussy, and reached for her Kindle, only to find Lucas joining her on the sofa and quizzing her about the new museum catalogue job, saying it sounded a serious step up the ladder and who knew where it might lead?

‘I know I work too much and I am sorry, Esther,’ he went on, once the subject of her working life and career hopes had received an unprecedentedly exhaustive analysis. He turned the music off and left his armchair to sit next to her on the sofa. ‘I am not supportive enough of you. It will get better, I promise.’

‘Lucas…’ She gave him a despairing, affectionate smile. Such promises had been made before, though not for a while. ‘Thank you. I would like that. Very much.’ She returned her concentration to the page of Mick Herron on her screen, thinking the moment was too lovely to risk ruining by saying anything else.

Lucas had picked up a paper to read, but tossed it back onto the coffee table. ‘Sometimes, Esther, I feel like Sisyphus, hauling his boulder; the need to prove something – to myself, to the world – over and over again. It’s exhausting.’