The man plonks his Tesco bag down onto the floor in front of the cupboard. A jar of pesto makes a clink as it kisses the tiles through the polythene. The front door is still open and a breeze carries in the pickup-time chatter from the school across the street.

The cat rubs its back against against the edge of the chaise longue, and meows, curiously, as if to say, “you’re home early”. It is holding its tail high, in the shape of a question mark.

The man does not respond, for he does not speak cat.