‘Shoddy goods.’ He almost threw it in the sink where it landed loudly, spilling dry soil on top of a couple of ketchup-smeared plates and a mug still holding the last dregs of tea in the bottom. She heard the distinct crack of china, unsure whether it was her crockery or the pot that had smashed. The action was most unlike her gentle Mario and in stark contrast to the jollity of the evening just spent. He was clearly hurt and she knew she was the cause. Her mind whirred with how best to approach him, what to say next. His resolute stance told her she had to tread gently.

‘I wasn’t saying that.’ She kept her tone level. Ordinarily she knew the expression, the words and the action to defuse a situation because she knew every inch of the man, every nuance, every sigh. This presentation of Mario, however, was new and unnerving. He reminded her of someone swaying on the pavement at closing time, spoiling for a fight. She didn’t like it one bit. ‘I am sorry, love, I just didn’t want you to think I couldn’t take care of it.’

‘So you put it in the bin?’ His expression was confused, his tone sarcastic.

‘I . . .’ She couldn’t get the right words out fast enough, wishing she could say that it hadn’t been done with hate but with thoughtlessness.

‘Have you had a nice birthday?’ he said, cutting her off.

Have I had a nice birthday? She considered his lost card, the lack of birthday messages on Facebook and the grotty lunch with her parents. But all of that, however, was tempered by the wondrous realisation that her mum was right, that her happiness lay in her hands – she had so much to appreciate and to feel thankful for. Close insight into Andrew Maxwell and his shallow marriage had also played its part, and now the magical idea that she was going to become a grandma. So how to reply? She plumped for the truth.

‘Actually, Mario, if I’m being honest, the start of it was a bit shaky, but right now, I think it’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.’

‘And are you being honest?’ He held her gaze, challenging.

‘Yes!’ She hated the implication. She felt sick. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She wanted to unpick his question, for him to say his piece, moan about being called home and having to leave work and the fact he had paid good money for the dying orchid, so they could clear the air, fight and move forward. She wanted to tell him all she had kept bottled up for so long and knew that when she did, the state of the orchid would not matter a jot. Bess wanted to work hard to make their life whole again, so that without hesitation he would tell anyone who asked that his wife was indeed smashing.