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a fraud check.’ She didn’t believe it for a second, and wanted me to know that she didn’t, despite the necessity of maintaining customer service policy. I knew her type. Only a tenth of her emotion showed above the surface, like an iceberg.
    Insolvency was a new experience for me. I casually riffled through my purse and submitted a less scorched card, and when that didn’t work, a third. In a mounting state of mortification, I went through all seven of my credit cards, but none of them registered. I was forced to explain to the assistant that she would have to put everything back.
    My shopping rush climaxed and faded. I felt cold and sticky. It wasn’t as though I’d been looking forward to taking everything home – that part of the process was a post-coital duty, like remaking the bed – so I mumbled some excuse about having accidentally demagnetised my strips and fled. I suddenly felt like my mother, who passed her entire life in a miasma of embarrassment.
    Out on the street, I felt stripped bare. My purse yielded a handful of change, not enough for a taxi, so I was forced to use the Tube. I hated being packed in like pencils and arrived home veiled in a sheen of sweat, to sit in the kitchen staring at the spot where my crisp, calm white cardboard bags should have stood. What could have happened?
    Gordon walked through the door and went straight upstairs to change, as he always did these days. I listened to the shower pattering as he washed Hilary’s intimate deodorant from his loins. A few minutes later I heard him emerge from the bathroom and make a phone call. My heart was beating too fast to follow his conversation. I hovered in my usual position by the sink, randomly moving cups and plates, picking at my nails, unsure what to do next. The call went on for ages. I fancied a drink, and had lately taken to keeping vodka and orange pre-mixed in a bleach bottle under the sink, a trick I had learnt from Lou, my neighbour, but now I needed a clear head.
    I’ve read about domestic violence, seen it often enough on the soaps, but it was never a part of our marriage, although I had once thrown a slice of wholemeal bread at Gordon. My husband specialised in injured sighs and low-volume sniping, but mostly avoided confrontation. We had barely spoken for a month. Finally the atmosphere was so bad that I wondered if he was going to come in and slap me. Gordon’s family comes from the south coast; his parents are the kind of people who still tut when they see more than three black people standing together in the street, and whose exaggerated respect for money prevents them from buying anything luxurious. For them, I had brought the concept of financial embarrassment colourfully to life. The longest they ever stayed on a visit was forty-seven minutes. They couldn’t understand why their son would ever give me access to his bank account.
    I waited for Gordon to enter the room, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to, I forced myself to head for the lounge. He pretended I hadn’t come in, but couldn’t resist making huffing-noises intended for an audience. Finally he spoke without looking up. ‘Well, I’ve finally taken care of your little problem.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I asked timidly, dreading the answer.
    ‘I’ve cancelled all your cards and reported your purse lost to the police.’
    ‘My purse isn’t lost.’
    He threw the wall a look of theatrical astonishment. ‘I cannot believe I was paying off seven separate accounts.’
    ‘You weren’t. I was paying some.’
    ‘The joint M&S and your fitness card, the rest are billed to me. I’ve stopped the lot, all except the Connect card for your personal current account, which you’ve hardly anything in.’
    ‘You can’t do that.’
    ‘Can’t I? I should have done it a long time ago. When my mother was younger it was still illegal to put a woman’s name down on a hire purchase agreement. Now I know why. And I know why you do it, you can’t