Mario took a breath. ‘And I’ve always thought of him as a boy, because that was what I wanted – another son. I mean, God knows I love Nats, I do, but I wanted another boy, and I think about what he’d be doing. I think about him by my side in the van on a long journey. I think about all three of my fabulous kids together with me down the pub, and I talk to him and tell him I’m sorry he left us too soon . . .’

Bess felt her own tears gather at his words – all three of my fabulous kids . . . She’d had no idea this was how he felt and that he had kept it to himself for all these years, unaware of his desperate mourning for this child who had left them too soon. It made her feel closer to him, and she understood, more than understood.

‘Mario, don’t cry,’ she whispered, humming quietly into his scalp, running the flat of her fingers over his neck and ears.

‘And I find it hard to talk to you about the stuff that matters, Bess.’

‘Do you?’ She knew this was true. It was as if neither had the energy or inclination to unearth events that were wounding or painful. It felt somehow easier to let them simmer beneath a veneer of banality. Far safer to talk about that night’s tea, the merits of a TV programme, whether either of them fancied dessert, Mario’s day at work, the kids she’d served lunch to and Chutney’s antics. Yes, these discussions were far easier than to mention their lack of sex life, how lonely she often felt sitting right next to her own husband on the sofa, how she often howled tears of remorse, and how she wondered sometimes if he felt the same. A little trapped, a little cheated by the life they lived, and a little as if they deserved something more.

‘I do, Bess. I find it hard to mention certain stuff. Like when you lost the baby, I remember they gave us a leaflet at the hospital and it had a number you could call with details of a support group for mothers, but there was nothing for a fat plasterer who felt so out of his depth. The lack of any phone number for the dads, the lack of a support group, made it hard for me to be open about my feelings, as though they simply didn’t count. The lads on site asked after you and I was grateful, but no one, not one person, asked me how I was doing, and I wanted to yell, It was my baby too!’