‘Why should they be unhinged by our divorce?’ I demand. ‘We’re not going to play games with their emotions. The truth is that Jake and I have outgrown each other and ‒ ’

‘Do you think marriage is a growth hormone, Nadine?’ She arches her eyebrows. Over the years, as her hair greyed and was dyed to a steely blonde, her eyebrows have remained black, as finely curved and expressive as calligraphy. ‘You don’t outgrow it like a pair of shoes. What do you think would happen to marriage if couples were to separate because they were bored with each other?’

‘I guess it would become one of those quaint customs from the past, like sacrificing virgins or foot binding.’

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, my dear,’ she snaps. ‘You must realise how such a reckless decision will affect my reputation.’

At last she’s reached the nub of the matter.

‘You can’t be held responsible for our decision,’ I argue. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to broadcast – ’

She delves into her handbag and slides a leaflet across the table towards me. ‘This woman is a highly qualified marriage counsellor. I want you and Jake to make an appointment with her. You can begin to sort out your problems by sitting down and discussing them with her.’

‘I’ve no intention of seeing a marriage counsellor, nor has Jake. This is all about perception. That’s all you’ve ever cared about. Your precious reputation.’

In a radio interview shortly after the twins were born Eleanor spoke about the joys of being a grandmother. She described myself and Jake as a shining example of a young couple devoted to each other and their family. Sleepless with the demands of four children under three years of age and aware that she had never once offered to babysit, I tore the paper in shreds before ringing her and forbidding her ever again to use her grandchildren as propaganda. That was the first time I ever confronted her. Eleanor was used to tougher combatants than her hysterical daughter-in-law and she took the attack in her stride. But I never forgot my exhilaration as I slammed the phone down, dizzying in its mix of anger and elation. The sensation I now feel is similar.

‘Yes, my dear, I care about perception and make no apologies for doing so,’ she says. ‘It’s often a more potent force for change than truth.’ She pauses, swallows audibly, the veins in her neck tightening. ‘You and Jake have no right to ruin the lives of your children with your selfish recklessness.’

I long to slap her inflexible face. The feel of flesh on flesh, the sting of satisfaction. ‘You must respect our wishes, Eleanor. Jake and I are getting divorced. You have to stop interfering in our lives.’

‘And you must stop trying to ruin mine.’ She closes her handbag, pulls on her driving gloves. ‘This counsellor is experienced and discreet. I’ll tell her to expect your call.’

It’s dark now. They’ll be home soon. I carve the last of the turkey. Jake will be relieved to eat something spicy. He detests turkey but any time he suggests a succulent roast lamb or a cracking belly of pork instead of the traditional Christmas dinner, our family rise up in protest. The tyranny of tradition. I slice deeply into the white flesh and add it to the simmering curry sauce. My eyes sting from the piquant spices. I set the table, six places once again.

A text comes through, the sharp bleep startling me. I reach into the corner unit for the phone and have clicked into the message before I realise it’s Jake’s mobile I’m holding.

Xmas over at last. Homeward bound soon. It’s up to you… New York… New York!

The front door opens. They’re glowing from the outdoors, crumpled anoraks, muddy hiking pants and boots, beanies pulled low over their foreheads.

‘Smells delicious!’ Jake sniffs the air and makes a beeline for the cooker. ‘Alleluia! It’s the end of the turkey.’

‘I opened one of your texts by mistake,’ I tell him when the others have gone upstairs to shower.

‘Oh… what was the message?’

‘Something about New York. Your phone’s over there if you want to read it.’ I gesture towards the corner unit.

‘I wondered where I’d left it.’ He glances across at the phone but makes no effort to pick it up. ‘It’s probably Reedy.’

‘Reedy?’

‘He’s gigging there at the moment.’ He lifts the saucepan lid and inspects the contents. ‘This looks so good.’

‘Eleanor was here. She knows.’

He meets my eyes for the first time. ‘Who told her?’

‘Eoin.’

‘That figures. Was she dreadful?’

‘There were no thumb screws involved but, otherwise, yes, she was her normal bullying, egocentric self.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Make her understand.’

‘You’re an atheist, Jake. You don’t believe in miracles.’

‘She can’t stop us doing what we want.’

‘That’s true.’ I strain the rice. ‘You’d better scrub up. Dinner’s almost ready.’

‘Okay then.’ He removes his phone from the shelf and slips it into his pocket. ‘I’ll have a quick shower. Be down in five.’

I remember Reedy. Basset hound eyes and stick legs in skinny jeans. I see his name on album credits, always as a session musician. ‘Have bass guitar will travel’.

When dinner is over, the twins, Ali and Brian head off to meet their friends from Oakdale.

‘Peace at last.’ Jake switches on the television and settles down to watch the box set he received as a present from the twins.

‘Why does everyone believe you’re the unhappy spouse?’ I ask him.

‘You know the kids.’ He shrugs, unconcerned, and presses the remote. ‘Once they get a notion into their heads, that’s it.’

‘I’m sick of fending off their pity.’

‘I wouldn’t let it bother me.’

‘Well, it does.’

‘It shouldn’t. Anyway, what’s unhappiness got to do with it? You never mentioned that word until now.’

‘But you must have been unhappy or you wouldn’t have agreed so readily when I asked for the divorce.’

‘Readily. Give me a break, Nadine.’

‘Would you have asked for one if I hadn’t suggested it first?’

‘That’s a hypothetical question. And I wasn’t aware we were involved in a competition to see who dumped who first.’

This is a ridiculous conversation. I’m behaving like a sulky child. But something’s wrong. I sense it, like nails scratching against my forehead, and I’m edgy, not knowing what it is.

‘I’m sorry, Jake.’ This is not the time for a row. ‘It’s been one of those days – ’

‘Forget it.’ He flaps his hand in my direction. ‘You’re probably due your period.’

‘Oh, here we go again!’ My anger explodes. ‘Nadine’s asking awkward questions so she must be due her period. Nadine’s in a bad mood so she must be due her period. Nadine tore my head off for being a prick so she must be due her period! Why do you always do that?’

‘Sounds like it’s due tomorrow.’ He remains unruffled.

‘That’s it!’ It’s years since I’ve shrieked like this at him. ‘I’m moving into the spare bedroom.’

‘Go ahead,’ he replies. ‘It’s what you’ve wanted to do for months.’

‘Correction… it’s what you’ve wanted me to do for months.’

The following morning we make up our row. Stress, we both agree. Who can blame us? We agree on this also. We’re perched high on the stress pyramid. An impending divorce, selling our house and business, a bank manager with the heart of a rock, adult children who need constant financial support until they’re ready to make their own way in the world. And Eleanor. I’m unsure where she should rank on the pyramid. The apex, probably. I refuse to allow her that vaulted position. My mother-in-law can and will be handled.

When Jake visits her I remove my clothes from our bedroom, clear my make-up and jewellery box from the dressing table.

‘What did she say?’ I ask when he returns.