No, it’s not enough time, she tells herself. It’s too risky. Safer to wait for another opportunity. He might leave her alone for a few days now – he usually does after an explosion like the one last night. Better to wait until after the holidays, too, when he’s back to working regular hours. When I can plan better, make it easier on the children.

She pulls up her trousers, stands up and flushes. Her nether regions feel like they’re on fire. She turns the tap on and washes her hands, watching the water flow over her wedding ring and into the wide sink, twisting down the drain. Then she looks up, meets her own eyes in the mirror and studies the right one that is almost too swollen to see out of, the black crack where her lip split, the fresh thumb marks on her throat. This time, there was no point getting out her many shades of concealer. Even Bo realised as much.

‘Mum slipped on the stairs,’ he said at breakfast yesterday and was met by silence. She had smiled reassuringly at Mikkel but had been too afraid to look Tyra in the eyes.

Another quick glance at the watch; it’s already been eleven minutes. If I . . . no, I won’t have time; I have to wait. For the children . . .

Her thoughts are interrupted by images flashing before her eyes: Tyra’s teddy, the puddle of pee on the stairs. She had known even before she opened the door to the children’s bedroom. Mikkel was still asleep and as blissfully ignorant as she has been telling herself he is. But Tyra . . . She had found her curled up under her duvet with wide, staring eyes and soaked pyjama bottoms.

That’s an image she will never be able to erase from her memory.

‘It’s OK, sweetheart,’ she’d murmured while she pulled off her daughter’s wet bottoms and helped her put on dry ones.

Tyra had made no reply.

‘Everything’s going to be all right again, Mummy promises,’ she’d repeated over and over again, stroking her hair. ‘Mummy promises.’

*