I wake to a blood-curdling scream followed by crying.

Christine’s voice: ‘For God’s sake, Dani!’

Great, I can’t even get a lie-in on a Saturday. I moan and stretch, the duvet sliding off my legs onto the floor. The smell of coffee wafts up the stairs, tempting me. But I can hear the sound of kids’ TV playing downstairs too – some crappy high-pitched song about how during the day the moon is replaced in the sky by the sun.

The clock says 6.30am. I should get up before the kids pounce on me. If they’re both still alive. The crying’s stopped.

When my morning wood has disappeared, I swing my legs out of bed and stagger towards the loo. My bladder was full all night; I kept waking up but was too tired to be bothered to get up. A jet of warm yellow piss streams out and I feel a surge of relief. I flush and can’t be bothered to wash my hands. I constantly get ill from the germs the kids pick up at school anyway.

I plod down the stairs in search of coffee and breakfast. Now the girls are sat in their pyjamas on the sofa transfixed by their deity, TV. Thank God for TV, providing brief moments of respite for exhausted parents across the world.

Christine’s in the kitchen washing up. ‘Good, you’re up,’ she says. ‘Dani needs some new clothes. I thought we could go shopping this morning, then maybe the park in the afternoon.’

Clothes shopping and sitting around in a freezing cold park while the kids never tire sounds like hell to me. It would be a distraction from everything else that I need to do though. But the last time we went clothes shopping it was such a long day: stuck in traffic, no car park space anywhere near the shops, dragging the kids from store to store, standing around awkwardly while the girls pick out something that Christine thinks looks suitable (that isn’t vulgar bubble-gum pink with frills or too revealing). Then the ordeal of trying to find the right size, waiting for all three of them to try stuff on, being asked for my opinion when I haven’t got one to give, wincing as I hand over my credit card to the cashier, and getting home exhausted.

‘Actually, I need to do some work today,’ I tell her.

She turns on me. ‘But you told me yesterday that you didn’t!’

I forgot about that. I need to come up with an excuse. ‘I know, but after I spoke to you Jamal told me that my new PA’s starting on Monday. I’ve got to sort everything out: my calendar, emails, things I need to tell her.’

‘Can’t you do that tomorrow?’

‘Aren’t we going to Mel’s thing tomorrow?’

Mel is Christine’s best friend and she’s hosting an awfully boring lunch party tomorrow afternoon with a few of our friends. I’ll have to talk to her dreary husband, Rob, who loves talking about himself and his latest flashy company car. He’ll boast about how much money they’ve spent on their house, which is a museum of the latest designer tat on the market. I’ll have to sit in a chair that bends my back in two while I eat the sparse amount of food on offer that doesn’t contain meat, gluten, eggs or dairy – because of Mel’s (non-existent) allergies. And it would be frowned upon for me to get drunk, or even to drink more than two beers, because I overheard Christine on the phone the other day telling Mel that she thinks that I have a drinking problem.

If I’ve got to go to Mel’s stupid party tomorrow then I want at least one day at home to relax this weekend. Christine’s always on at me for not being home enough anyway.

Christine looks as if she’s about to shout at me, but decides against it, shakes her head and walks out of the room. I wish she’d stop being such a drama queen. I’m not following her for yet another argument. I hear her stamp upstairs to get dressed. Good, I can relax.

The cafetière sits on the counter teasing me with its fresh aroma. I pour myself out a strong coffee. Then I take the cereal from the cupboard, a wet spoon and bowl from the drainer, and the milk from the fridge. I slowly pour out the cereal then drown it in milk. Like a malevolent god, I push the remaining cereal swimming on the surface under with my spoon. There will be no survivors.

I stroll into the living room with my cereal and coffee, and sit down on the sofa next to the girls. Beth buries her head in my side while she watches cartoons like a zombie. I reach over her to put my coffee down on the table and lounge back to munch on my cereal.

‘Do we have to go shopping?’ Beth mutters. If she had her own way, she’d stay glued to the TV all day.

‘That’s up to your mother,’ I say tactfully. All of our lives are governed by her after all.

* * *

I struggle into the house lugging a million shopping bags. The kids trudge in behind me and Christine brings up the rear carrying her single bag. I throw down the bags in the hall as Dani and Beth collapse on the sofa, and Christine disappears into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

I wish I hadn’t gone. Hours wasted as the three of them tried on more and more clothes and shoes. My sense of frustration built until I felt like punching something. It was just as I’d thought: endless waiting for an acne-ridden trainee to find the right shoes in the storeroom, claustrophobic aisles filled with women trawling through the sales racks, kids being dragged along or screaming as they ran around, tinny music making my headache worse, or shitty pop or rap playing in other stores, my feet aching from standing around bored out of my skull, hordes of women and children pushing us forward as we queued to pay.

The stupidity of the store cashiers asking, ‘Is there anything else that I can help you with?’ or ‘Did you find everything that you were looking for today?’ while the customers behind us tap their feet impatiently. No wonder the retail sector is in trouble. CEOs pat themselves on the back for their meaningless customer satisfaction scores, while infuriated customers are belittled by market research surveys and inane questions about their shopping experience. We’re all trying so hard to be politically correct that most of us are too polite to criticise the multitude of mild inconveniences that we’re forced to endure when we dare to leave the house.

Hearing the kids put on the TV, I pick out my new ties, shirts and suit from a bag and go in search of some scissors to cut off the labels. More plastic waste. Annoying transparent clips hold a shirt in place around a flimsy piece of cardboard. I remember the last time I came home with a new shirt and Christine berated me for not seeing one of the damn clips before I bunged it in the washing machine. She yelled at me for being blind, even though she’d double-checked for the invisible clips first. Mind you, the same morning Dani had fallen over and chipped one of her baby teeth, so she wasn’t in the best of moods.

I grab the scissors from the kitchen drawer.

‘Coffee?’ Christine asks.

‘Thanks.’ I smile at her, but she doesn’t see me, turning back towards the boiled kettle and pulling out another mug.

I put down the bundled-up new clothes and scissors, and wrap my arms around her waist. I miss her smile. ‘Are you okay?’

She stiffens and doesn’t relax into my embrace. ‘I’m tired,’ she replies.

‘Why don’t you go and lie down?’

She turns around, a frown etched on her face. ‘I’ve got to make dinner. And you said that you needed to do some work...’ She gestures towards my clothes. ‘Leave those. I’ll cut the labels off and stick them in the machine.’

‘How about we have an early night?’ I smile, kissing her.

She closes her eyes and lets me kiss her. Her lips taste of the caramel syrup they added to her latte when we had lunch.

‘That sounds nice.’

We always say that we’ll have an early night, but either I end up working late or we’ll watch some crap on TV until we feel like dragging ourselves to bed. Sometimes I wonder whether we do it on purpose so we don’t have to talk to each other or have sex. I don’t know what we would talk about though; we usually only discuss the kids and work.

Christine turns around, picks up my coffee and hands it to me. ‘I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.’

‘Thanks.’ Grateful, I take the coffee and head upstairs to my office.

I hate that it’s so difficult to talk with Christine, especially about the future. I don’t know what she wants. Will she get a job now that both the kids are at school or choose to remain a housewife? It feels as if she needs some kind of purpose in her life, something more than just supporting me and the kids and helping to organise school trips and charity days.

She didn’t want me getting into politics. She said it just added pressure on her to be the ‘perfect’ wife and mother; she didn’t want to be judged all the time. She hates the mothers who congregate outside the school gates with her every day, and how they compare themselves and their children’s achievements. By getting involved in politics I’ve apparently ‘made everything worse’. I’ve made her anxiety worse. I’ve made our relationship worse.

I start up my computer and wait an age while the monitor shows me a rotating circle and tells me that it’s completing updates. I sip my scalding-hot coffee, enjoying the sensation of the roof of my mouth burning. Masochist.

Finally, the log-in screen appears and I enter my password. Nope, didn’t work. I try again and this time my desktop appears. The background is a family photo taken last summer when we went to Cornwall. I click on my emails, wait an unfathomable amount of time for them to appear, then dismay overtakes me when I see that I have 54 new messages.

I go through them one by one: mostly junk, details about meetings or emails from Jamal about all the things that I have to do. I’ve got to go through the draft accounts that Finance sent me on Friday. And sort out my calendar for the new PA.

I wonder what she’ll be like. Hopefully attractive, although maybe that’s sexist of me. It would have been nice for Christine to take the job, but perhaps spending more time with me would push her over the edge. Whatever ‘the edge’ might be.

I open up the internet and sit there staring at the search bar, wondering what I want to search for. It won’t be long before dinner’s ready. I hear Christine pulling out another saucepan and the smell of curry wafts up the stairs.

I get up and close the door quietly, sneak back to my laptop, then mute the sound and type in the URL of a porn site. Images of naked women being fucked in various holes pop up, and I scroll through my selection. ‘Horny MILF sucks and fucks’ – not very realistic. Her tits look like they’ll explode from a bad boob job. ‘Latex babe destroyed by big black dick.’ I’m not into the whole latex fetish thing. Or big black dicks. ‘Gorgeous 18 year old tries anal for first time.’ Not into teens either. ‘Hot blonde masturbates with dildo.’ Meh. ‘April takes on two cocks at the same time.’ Maybe April’s fantasy, but not mine. ‘Deepthroat, fuck and facial.’ Maybe. I hover over the image to see the rest of the graphic stills. The girl’s a hot brunette wearing suspenders who looks like she’s enjoying the sex and getting banged on camera. I click on the image and an annoying pop-up takes over the screen, which I close to watch the video.

Listening out for anyone coming upstairs, I unzip my jeans and reach inside. I should have enough time. I click play.

The girl walks seductively into shot, wearing black lace suspenders, a thong and matching bra, trying not to fall over in her platform shoes. She flicks her hair, twirls for the camera like she’s parading across the stage at some prestigious pornstar pageant, then sticks out her butt to show off her thong. She wiggles her bum and the cameraman zooms in on her arse. Boring. I skip ahead.

Now she’s taken off her lingerie and is playing with herself. She’s staring at the camera, trying to look seductive as she dips two fingers inside. I don’t have time to watch the foreplay, so I fast forward again.

The guy’s holding the back of her head and slamming his cock into her mouth. He readjusts his grip and holds back her hair as she bobs up and down his shaft, looking up to watch his reaction. He moves her head down further and she backs up for air, a trail of saliva dripping down her chin as she smiles up at him.

They reposition: he sits on the couch and she perches over his cock on all fours next to him. He pushes her head down on his dick again, fucking her mouth until she shoves her head away and comes up coughing. More spit dribbles down her chin. Someone behind the camera gives the nod and she straddles him and starts bouncing up and down. She doesn’t look overly enthused, and a close-up of her riding his cock doesn’t really do much for me. I skip ahead once more.

He’s fucking her from behind now, her arse up in the air, tits bouncing, voicelessly moaning into the back of the sofa. He repeatedly spanks her arse and her skin slowly turns from pink to red. She looks like she enjoys doggy style, closing her eyes, gripping the arm of the sofa tightly while she comes. Or pretends to come.

I hear footsteps in the hall. Shit. I close down the window, the photo of my family appearing on the desktop once more. Quickly I reposition my cock and zip up my jeans as someone comes up the stairs. I think it’s Christine – the footsteps sound slow and heavy. The door opens and I turn around and smile at Christine as she walks into the room.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ she tells me. Then she frowns.

‘What?’

‘I thought you were working.’

‘I was!’

‘Working really hard, were you?’ she says, looking down at my crotch.

I want to hide under my desk. ‘I was –’

‘Save it,’ she tells me, coming in and closing the door. She raises her voice while she tells me off like a stupid little child. ‘I can’t believe you! You need to fucking grow up. What if one of the girls had walked in?’

‘I’m –’

‘Wanking!’ she finishes for me. ‘While I make you dinner. While I’m working and looking after your children, you’re jerking off. Or on other nights, you’re getting trashed in sleazy bars with that arsehole Jamal.’

‘That only happened –’

‘You expect me to do everything for you! You never do anything for me. And I’m sick of it. Next week I’m going to my parents’ with the kids.’

‘But… Next week we have that charity thing. Where they’re announcing that I’m the new –’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ she says, opening the door. ‘I’m not going.’ She slams the door shut behind her.

Fuck. Fucking fuck. Does she mean it? Jamal will be pissed if she’s not there. He said that we need to act like a stereotypical white married couple, holding hands and kissing each other’s cheeks. She’s supposed to be there at my side while I flounce around and pretend that I know everyone in the room and shake their hands and thank them for coming.

‘Christine!’

I chase her down the stairs. I need to negotiate. I need to beg.

The kids are traipsing into the kitchen in search of dinner and look up at me with their sad yet curious ‘Mummy and Daddy are fighting’ eyes.

I smile at them. ‘Let’s have dinner!’ I say in a fake happy tone, herding them into the kitchen. I’ll use my children as a shield to defend me from my wife who’s looking daggers at me.

The kids sit at the table and Christine slops out chicken curry into two bowls and thrusts the dinner in front of their faces. She grabs my arm and pulls me out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

‘You’re not having dinner with us!’ she whispers.

‘I’m sorry… Look, I need you there next week.’

‘It’s half-term and the kids need a break. We all need a break.’

‘What am I supposed to say if you’re not there?’

‘I don’t know. Make up an excuse. You’re good at that.’

‘Please… Just leave the kids with your parents that night.’

‘I’m not going,’ she says, and marches off into the kitchen again.

I stand alone in the hallway and wonder why I bother. Why is everything so difficult? Why do we have to fight about everything?

Maybe she’s just jealous of me. Jealous of the fact that I can leave the house and live another life at work; that I can live another life and that I want to. I want my life to mean something, I want to be somebody, whereas Christine has never known what that feels like and what she wants to do.

I used to think that things just fell into place for me because of my father and everything he worked so hard for over the years. But now I’m not so sure. I think his work ethic has rubbed off on me. I don’t want to be an entitled middle-class yuppie who buys expensive property, drives a flashy car, goes on luxury holidays abroad and boasts about his stock options. (God forbid that I should turn into Mel’s husband.) I want to be able to change the world, do some good, have people look up to me. Even if I just start off as a mere local MP helping out his constituency, I want to be someone my kids can look up to. And if Christine doesn’t support me in that then I don’t know what will happen. What will our future look like?