George takes the box from me and puts it back down. ‘What the fuck, Leah?’

I swallow hard. ‘You shouldn’t have—’

‘I knew you weren’t coping.’ George tips the box onto its side and out spills bottle after bottle of antibacterial cleaner, hand wash, disinfectant wipes. Disposable gloves.

‘I… I am…’ I’m coping because of the contents of the box, not in spite of them.

‘You’re not. You haven’t got eczema again at all, have you?’

I stare miserably at my gloved hands. ‘No.’

‘You need help.’

‘It’s because of the anniversary.’

‘I know.’ His voice is quiet. His expression despairing. ‘I know how difficult it is for you. All of you. But remember the last time? I can’t go through it again, Leah. I’m not putting Archie through it. If you need to go and stay somewhere—’

‘A psychiatric hospital? I’m not mad.’

‘I’m not saying you are but you need specialist—’

‘I’ll ring Francesca. Make an appointment.’

She had helped before. She was the one who came to the police station and fought for me when they wouldn’t let me go. She explained the truth to them, however implausible it had seemed. My pulse accelerates as I remember the disbelief etched on their faces. The suspicion. She managed to persuade them I was innocent.

That time, I was innocent.

‘George? I said I’ll ring Francesca.’

‘Okay.’ There’s such weariness to that one word. He doesn’t follow it with ‘when?’ or ‘call her now’ and I know what he is thinking.

‘I know she’s expensive but Marie says we’re due some large royalties. I can cover the cost. Soon the anniversary will have been and gone and everything will be back to normal, I promise.’

‘You can’t put a price on mental health,’ he says. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Thanks. I’ll see what she suggests.’ I flash him a smile that he doesn’t return.

After a silent sandwich – even Archie is subdued, picking up on our tension – George disappears into his study.

‘What shall we play with, Archie?’ I ask.

‘Are your hands too sore to play trains, Mummy?’ He studies my face.

My throat swells as he looks at me with concern. ‘I’m never too sore to play with you, Archie.’ Not a direct lie, but not the truth either.

Archie scampers upstairs, returning minutes later, his thick winter gloves covering his hands.

‘Now we’re the same.’

I blink back tears as I watch him struggle to push the carriages around the track, hating myself, and loving him more.

It is just Archie and me for dinner. George is heading out again. After we’ve eaten, Archie asks if he can go and watch George get ready. He loves it when George smothers his chin in shaving cream, a Father Christmas beard.

I settle myself in front of the TV, channel-hopping, trying to find something upbeat – there are far too many crime series on. Channel 4 is halfway through an episode of Come Dine With Me but I watch it all the same.