‘When I get back?’ she said, sighing. ‘I really don’t want to go.’

‘It’s Japan. It’s Tokyo. You’ve never been. It will be great.’

‘But this bloody speech …’

‘They’re going to love you,’ I promised again, opening the bottle. ‘Who could ever do anything but love you?’

We had a glass and we kissed and then I turned off the light.

Tara was soon sleeping – she was a great sleeper – but I lay awake, listening to the cars that drive too fast down our street, and smelling our son sleeping between us, that special Marlon scent of paint and dog and toothpaste and books.

I must have slept because the first light of a spring morning was seeping into the bedroom when Buddy jumped up on the end of the bed and settled, keeping very still, hoping nobody would notice him.

Tara turned to face me across our sleeping son.

She touched my face.

I held her hand and kissed her fingertips.

‘What will you boys do without me?’ she said, her voice husky with sleep.

I will miss you, she meant.

‘We’re going to be teaching the dog tricks at midnight,’ I said.

I will miss you too.

And then she turned her face from mine, and for reasons I could not explain, I found myself on the edge of tears.

2

Tara

They are all sleeping when I slip from the bed and quickly shower, dress and put on my face.

I take one last look at them from the bedroom door – Christian contentedly snoring on his back, Marlon somehow on top of the duvet with Buddy curled up between his feet – and, resisting the urge for final kisses all round, I quietly make my way downstairs to the hallway where my suitcase is waiting and, I can see through the old-fashioned frosted-glass of our front door, my car to the airport is idling on the street.

But then I linger, breathing in my home, listening to the sounds it makes without us, feeling my love for it, prolonging the actual moment of leaving, feeling sad to leave my boys but – there’s no denying – also a mounting excitement. Our elderly, endlessly difficult boiler sounds like it is playing up again and its arthritic moans and choking gurgles echo mournfully through our house, a cavernous Victorian terrace that we converted from multiple dinky flats to family home with the considerable help of my father, who does that sort of stuff for a living.

I listen to the song of the wonky boiler as I stare up at the framed blown-up magazine cover that has pride of place in our hallway. Every home has these little grace notes that proclaim – among all this brick, stone and slate, once occupied by generations now long dead, this is who we are, and this is what makes our family and our house so special. This framed poster is definitely one of those grace notes because that’s me on the cover, wearing a black dress from Stella McCartney that is slightly too short and an amused smirk that makes me look slightly too pleased with myself.