When Chutney was a pup, they would on occasion breach the gap, scooting him to the bottom of the mattress and reaching over to make contact skin-to-skin as they indulged in quick, satisfying sex on a Saturday night, with the promise of a lie-in on Sunday. It had been a while since they had shifted the dog for this purpose, using him as both an excuse and a foot warmer. It wasn’t Mario’s fault. Newly married, Bess would have laughed at the fart, leapt on top of her husband, chastised him, kissed him and buried her face in the chest of this man who had pledged to love her for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. She tried to recall when she had stopped behaving that way, tried to remember exactly when it had first felt easier to curl up and reflect, harder to laugh and be silly. When she lost the baby, certainly. That was one marker.

It was the turn of Mario’s alarm to blast its greeting, and her heart sank.

How she hated the sound. Hated it more than the scratch of something on a chalkboard, more than the squeak of cutlery across the cheap metal trays of the kids whose lunches she served every day in the school canteen and more than bloody Smudge’s piercing yap. Smudge being the small Jack Russell that lived with Mr Draper (‘Call me Jonathan!’) over the way and who harassed Chutney at every given opportunity – the dog, that was, not Mr Draper. ‘He wants to be friends!’ Mr Draper would trill, while Smudge did his best to snap at Chutney’s one remaining testicle with his teeth bared.

‘Come on, lazy arse!’ her husband chortled. ‘Time to get up!’

‘I am many things, Mario, but I’m not lazy.’

‘I was joking,’ he sniffed, ‘or trying to. You’re not still a bit down in the dumps, are you?’ His intonation was heavy with judgement and impatience with her.

Her silence said more than any fake denial or forced smile that might have helped smooth the start of the day.

‘The thing is, Bess,’ he said eventually, ‘I don’t know if you know this, but your mood is catching – it’s a joy hoover. It makes me feel like shite; it even makes Chutney feel like shite!’ He ran his hand over the head of their beloved mutt.

It wasn’t news. Her moods balled the sunshine and lobbed it into the back yard to land with the weeds growing up through the patio and the discarded wood stacked in the corner, loitering without purpose. It put the house in permanent winter, which made her feel both powerful and guilty.