The beginning

The day after my youngest child falls out of a tree and gashes her hand so spectacularly we have to rush her to A&E, my friend Janet calls in a panic. She'd dreamt that something terrible had happened to us.

A week later, my husband phones me from work. "They're about to make me redundant," he says. His voice is so diminished with shock I can hardly hear him.

We should have seen it coming. His firm has such an industry-wide reputation for revolving door recruitment that it's on several headhunter's black lists. In the five years he's been there, he's already outlasted three managing directors and a brace of top sales honchos, giving him top Duracell bunny status for longevity. Then, a few weeks ago, a senior colleague started shadowing him like an ace detective, meeting his clients, presenting his sales figures and taking such an interest in the minuteae of his life that we half expected him to pop out of the wardrobe every morning and advise Francis on his choice of ties.

The letter he's received telling him that his job 'may' be at risk - I love that 'may' - is a formality. It invites him to a meeting to discuss his future in two day's time. The outcome is a forgone conclusion. All that matters now is how big the pay off is going to be and how long it's going to keep us going.

At least we're in a slightly stronger position than last time round - six years ago. Then, our youngest child was a baby and I'd abandoned what seemed like the impossibility of managing a nanny, two full time jobs and having any time to do more than give the cat a bedtime kiss (she was frequently the only one up when I got home) and wonder what the children looked like when they were awake. Then, it took him over a year to get a new job.

Now, all three children are at schoool and I have a part-time job teaching music at a local school. It's secure and reasonably well paid but inevitably restricted as far as overtime and career progression is concerned - there's a limit to how many Disney tunes you can teach a bunch of seven-year olds in a week, and I think I've reached it.

I cancel the book club meeting which was organised for the following evening. The family is in official mourning for my husband's career and the niceties must be observed. Filling the house with a bunch of cackling women swilling wine and swapping PTA anecdotes may provide temporary therapy for me but I don't think it will do much for Francis. And, let's be honest. I now feel that, like somebody who's been diagnosed with a non life-threatening but disfiguring condition, our new status will set us slightly apart. At every social gathering from now on, we'll feel as if we're the have-nots to everyone's haves, the couple who are living in a parallel world, the people who'll hear about good news - promotions, bonuses, new cars - at second hand, everything tactfully toned down so we're not acutely conscious of the gap between us.

A friend comes round. She's brought a card for Francis. "Everyone thinks you're a c***" it announces, in bright primary colours. There's a badge, too, with the same word. "Do you think it'll cheer him up?" she asks. I'm not sure - but shouldn't think so. She's laughing so much, though, that I think maybe it's just me.

When Francis walks in, she presents it to him. He makes a good show of laughing when he opens it but later on, when she's gone, he has another look at it. "It's true," he says,"I am a c***. You only get made redundant if you're rubbish, and that's what everybody's going to think."

Oh, dear. I should have followed my instincts on this one. He spends the rest of the evening sunk in gloom. We go to bed. At 3.30 am we're both awake, eyes staring at the ceiling, each aware of the other but not saying anything.

The next morning, I phone Janet, to ask if she's had any more dreams about us. If some force greater than both of us is exerting a form of psychic control over our lives, I want to know about it. She hasn't. It may not be much as rays of sunshine go, but it's all that's on offer at the moment.