He knows the truth of that. He hardly ever sees her frightened, and when he does it's really only at home. At the studio when the gifts would come she'd airily brush them off, whenever she was unnerved outside the studio door she'd laugh and pose for selfies. But here, at home, with her wigs off and her make up gone he's seen her tremble and he's seen her cry.

So in here, in this most sacred space that is just for the two of them, in here it's okay.

"Let's get in the bath, love," he says. "Before the water goes cold."

He strips off his pants and the livid bruise continues down to his ass, the cheek deeply coloured from when he was knocked down on his backside. The imprints of fists pattern his ribs and his eye hurts more now that he's wept a little. And yet as the pil begins to effect him he sinks into the water and makes room for her to join him.