He pulled his Audi into the tight space in his carport, alongside Kellie’s rusting Espace, pocketed his mobile phone and climbed out, grabbing his briefcase and the flowers. The newsagent across the street was still open, as was the small gym, but the hair salon, ironmonger and estate agency were closed for the day. Two teenage girls stood at the bus stop a short way down, dolled up for a night out, miniskirts so short he could see the start of their buttocks. Feeling a distinct prick of lust, his eyes lingered on them for a moment, following their bare legs up as they shared a cigarette.

Then he heard the sound of the front door opening, and Kellie’s voice calling out excitedly, ‘Daddy’s home!’

As a marketing man, Tom had always been good with words, but if anyone had asked him to describe how he felt this moment, every weekday night, when he arrived home to the greeting from the people that meant everything in the whole world to him, he doubted he could have done it. It was a rush of joy, of pride, of utter love. If he could freeze one moment of his life, it would be this, now, as he stood in the open doorway, feeling his kids’ tight hugs, watching Lady, their Alsatian, holding her lead in her mouth, hope on her face, stamping a paw on the ground, tail the size of a giant redwood swinging wildly. And then seeing Kellie’s smiling face.

She stood in the doorway in denim dungarees and a white T-shirt, her face, framed by a tangle of blonde ringlets, all lit up with her wonderful smile. Then he gave her the pink, yellow and white bouquet of flowers.

Kellie did what she always did when he gave her flowers. Her blue eyes sparkling with joy, she turned them around in her hands for a moment, going ‘Wow, oh wow!’ as if they genuinely were the most beautiful bunch she had ever seen. Then she brought them to her nose – her tiny, pert little nose he had always loved – and sniffed them. ‘Wow! Look at these. Roses! My favourite flowers in my favourite colours. You are so thoughtful, my darling!’ She kissed him.

And on this particular evening her kiss was longer, more lingering than usual. Maybe he’d get lucky tonight? Or, God forbid, he thought for a moment as a cloud momentarily slid across his heart, she was prepping him for news of some insane new purchase she had made today on eBay.

But she said nothing as he went in, and he could see no box, no packing case, no crate, no new gadget or gizmo. And, ten minutes later, relieved of his sticky clothes, showered and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, his see-sawing mood resumed its steady, if temporary, upward trend.

Max, seven years, fourteen weeks and three days old ‘xactly’, was into Harry Potter. He was also into rubber bracelets and proudly sported white make poverty history, and black and white anti-racism stand up-speak up ones.

Tom, pleased that Max was taking an interest in the world even if he didn’t fully understand the significance of the slogans, sat on the chair beside his son’s bed in the little room with its bright yellow wallpaper. He was reading aloud, making his way through the books for the second time, while Max, curled up in his bed, his head poking out of his Harry Potter duvet, blond hair tousled, his large eyes open, absorbed everything.

Jessica, four, had toothache and had gone into a sudden strop, and was not interested in a story. Her bawling, coming through the bedroom wall, seemed impervious to Kellie’s efforts at calming her down.

Tom finished the chapter, kissed his son goodnight, picked a Hogwarts Express carriage off the floor and put it on a shelf next to a PlayStation. Then he turned off the light, blowing Max another kiss from the door. He went into Jessica’s pink room, a shrine to Barbie World, saw her scrunched-up face, puce and sodden with tears, and received a helpless shrug from Kellie, who was trying to read her The Gruffalo. He attempted to calm his daughter himself for a couple of minutes, to no avail. Kellie told him Jessica had an emergency appointment with the dentist in the morning.

He retreated downstairs, treading a careful path between two Barbie dolls and a Lego crane, into the kitchen where there was a good smell of cooking, and then almost tripped over Jessica’s miniature tricycle. Lady, in her basket, gnawing tendrils from a bone the size of a dinosaur’s leg, again looked up at him hopefully and her tail gave a sloppy wag. Then she jumped out of her basket, walked across the room and rolled onto her back, tits in the air.

Giving them a rub with his foot whilst her head lolled back with a goofy smile, her tongue falling out between her teeth, he said, ‘Later, you old tart, I promise. Walkies later. OK. Deal?’

It had been this kitchen that had sold Kellie on the house. The previous owners had spent a fortune on it, all marble and brushed steel, and Kellie had subsequently added just about every gadget a creaking credit limit could buy.

Through the window he could see the sprinkler whirring in the centre of the small, rectangular garden, and a blackbird on the lawn standing under the falling water, raising a wing and rubbing itself with its beak. Tiny, brightly coloured clothes hung on the washing line. Beneath them a plastic scooter lay on the grass. In the little greenhouse at the end, tomatoes, raspberries, strawberries and courgettes he was nurturing himself were coming along.

It was the first year he had ever tried to grow anything and he felt inordinately proud of his endeavours – so far. Above the fence he could see the Giraffe’s long, mournful face bobbing along. His neighbour was out there at all hours, clipping, pruning, weeding, raking, watering, up and down, up and down, his frame angled and bent like a tired old crane.

Then he glanced at the watercolour and crayon drawings and paintings almost entirely covering one wall – efforts from both Max and Jessica – checking for anything new. Apart from Harry Potter, Max was car mad and much of his art had wheels on. Jessica’s had weird-looking people and even weirder animals, and she always drew the sun shining brightly somewhere in every picture. She was normally a cheery girl, and it upset him to see her crying tonight. There was no new artwork for him to admire today.

He mixed himself a stiff Polstar vodka and cranberry juice, grinding in crushed ice from the dispenser on their swanky American fridge – another one of Kellie’s ‘bargains’ – with a television screen built into the door, then carried his glass into the living room. He debated whether to go through into the little conservatory, which had the sun on it now, or even go and sit out on the bench in the garden, but decided to watch television for a few minutes instead.

He picked up the remote and settled down in his sumptuous recliner armchair – an internet bargain he had actually bought for himself – in front of Kellie’s most recent extravagant e-purchase, a huge flat-screen Toshiba television. This took up half the wall, not to mention half his income when the payment instalments ‘holiday’ expired in a year’s time – although he had to admit it was great to watch sport on. As usual, the QVC Shopping Channel was on the screen, with Kellie’s keyboard plugged in and lying on the sofa.

He flicked through some channels, then found The Simpsons and watched that for a little while. He always liked this show. Homer was his favourite – he empathized with him. Whatever Homer did the world always dumped on him.

Sipping his drink he felt good. He loved this chair, loved this room with its dining area at one end and open-air feel with the conservatory at the other. Loved the photos of the kids and of Kellie all around, the framed abstract prints of a deckchair and of the Palace Pier on the walls – inexpensive art that he and Kellie had actually agreed on – and the glass cabinet filled with his small collection of golf and cricket trophies.