‘I think her and Mario might be having marital problems,’ her mum whispered loudly from behind her raised fork. Her mouth was now half hidden by a curl of scampi.

‘I can hear you, Mum! I’m sitting right opposite and you’re not whispering, even if you think you are!’ Bess took a breath. ‘And we’re not having marital problems, not at all, and I can’t believe you just told Dad that!’ Her mum’s summation had in fact struck a chord, but to hear it put so plainly was frightening.

‘We don’t have secrets, your father and I, never have.’ Her mum pursed her lips as if delivering another salient lesson in life.

‘No, but I thought you and I did.’ Bess stared at her. Secrets . . . bloody secrets . . . Secrets are ticking time bombs, and the longer I carry them, the louder they tick, until I have to strain to hear ordinary life above the din – and the weight of them, so heavy, pulls at my limbs from the moment I wake until the moment I fall asleep, heavy and draining and too much . . . Just too much, all of it. She placed her fingers under her nose, certain she could smell sandalwood.

‘Are you menopausal, d’you think?’ her mum asked, reaching for her wine.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Bess sighed desolately. ‘Why is that if a woman shows any emotion or expresses a desire for change or says she’s unhappy, the first thing anyone says is that it must be the sodding menopause! Or it’s her hormones! Why can’t she just be a little pissed off?’

‘Please stop shouting that language!’ her dad said, pulling a face.

‘Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to swear.’

‘No, I don’t mind the swearing, Bess, it’s the word “meno-doodah” I struggle with. Always have.’

‘Menopause?’ Bess asked, aghast.

‘That’s the one.’ He pointed his fork at her, his expression full of distaste – and this from the man who had announced his dump at her birthday lunch . . . ‘You went off the rails a bit, didn’t you, love, when you were afflicted?’ he said, now jabbing his fork at his wife.

‘Yes, I did a bit.’ Her mum took another large glug of plonk.

‘A bit? She painted the whole kitchen blue! And I mean everything – walls, cabinets, ceiling, the cat . . .’ He chortled. ‘We had to get a brand-new kitchen! Only way to get rid of the gloss everywhere.’

Bess smiled at her mum, remembering when she had confessed that the only way to get a new kitchen was to spoil the one they had.

‘Yep, no secrets, Mum, isn’t that right?’ Bess pursed her lips, wide-eyed, while her mum studiously looked the other way.

‘Anyway, happy birthday, love,’ her dad said, clinking his pint glass with Bess’s Coke as they both said cheers.