The clack of the letterbox jolts her into sudden wakefulness. And then gradual realisation. It’s the anniversary. Layla struggles her reluctant feet into decrepit faded slippers. On her way to the kitchen she bends to pick up the morning paper from the unwelcome doormat. Good intentions will persuade her to flick on the kettle, but today the lure of a bottle of cheap red wine will overrule them. She pours a large measure into last…