Shelter

They had been cooking before Tom was pulled away by another late-night call. Kate continued without him, dicing red peppers, a pan heating on the hob close by. She put meat into the pan and stood for a moment to watch it sweat and sizzle, a dirty grey foam gathering at the side before it finally browned.

Tom came out of the office and quietly told her that he was going to bed, his head low like a wounded animal. Most evenings were like this now: the chaos and hum of the children's bedtime followed by their separate chores. There was dinner to cook, work calls to take. Lunches had to be made for school next day.

'The lunches!' Kate said out loud and jumped back, lifting the pan from the hob. She went to the fridge and took out ham and butter.

Kate looked around. Tom was still there, standing by the counter reading a supermarket flyer, his shock of dark hair falling forward, covering part of his face.

'Will you bring Kevin to swimming tomorrow?' she asked.

'I bring him to swimming every Thursday,' Tom said, and a cross look flashed across his face, so she decided against mentioning to her husband that this was not strictly true. He was often caught late in the city.

They were both silent for a moment then Tom stopped reading and looked up. 'Any news?' he asked.

Kate went to the cupboard and took out two cups, holding one up in his direction. He nodded slowly, would agree to a late-night conversation, but she knew that she had to tread carefully here, could see how this might unfold, how he would ask her if she had heard from the bank and if her response was not what he needed to hear, he could erupt. A small explosion of emotion, a slammed down cup, followed by a brisk departure to bed: all her fault.