Most of the time, it felt like they were cruising through life. Weekdays were a blur spent between commuter trains, cramped underground stations, and glass meeting rooms high above an ugly grey city. In contrast, weekends were spent in delightful country gardens and marquees, attending a flurry of weddings, christenings and anniversaries.

They’d return from the countryside late every Sunday, bringing with them the scent of single track roads, other people’s perfume and Prosecco. They broke the boredom of the journey by devouring a box of macaroons, a sponge cake, a tiny box of Turkish delight; whatever fancy favour they had been gifted. A final taste of their freedom, slipping away into white noise on motorway’s black tongue.

Sometimes, in her dreams, she told him that she hated macaroons. Their empty sweetness, their ridiculous colours. Cassis is for drinking, she hissed, and raspberry should never be blue. Why are we doing this anyway? When do they ever come to visit us? When will it be our time?

But still, every Sunday they would sit, her on the left, him on the right, saying nothing, driving home.