One of the worst things about Tier-3 was…Chris.

Back at home again, every sodding day.

She didn’t so much mind the constant conference calls or even hearing him pop to the loo with his headphones on (on mute, she hoped). She’d got used to collecting his mugs from the desk in the bedroom and made sure to have his favourite crisps and Diet Coke on tap.

It was the post. She couldn’t hide the flipping post.

He didn’t begrudge her spending, he’d was at pains to say, but he’d thought one of the upsides of lockdown was that they were actually saving some cash.

Every time the doorbell rang, he’d appear at the top of stairs and give her a look. Oh yes, he’d say, when he spotted the drivers from STD or Herpes (as he dubbed them, the joker), been shopping again? Say hi to your boyfriend, for me, he’d laugh.

It had been so easy when he’d gone back to the office for those few blissful weeks. She could stamp on the boxes, fold them up and shove them in her boot – casually dump them in the recycling bin at Saino’s, he never needed to know.

She’d have to do Click and Collect or figure out one of those pick-up services. It was her only plan. That or divorce.