‘Maybe women everywhere need to make a deal to not hear their predecessors bad-mouthed,’ I say to Suzy. ‘When my next boyfriend – should such a thing happen again – tries to tell me that his ex was crazy, I’m going to say, Was she really crazy, or did she just get sick of pandering to your fads? Because I think the answer will be interesting.’

‘Hey,’ says Art. ‘Hey.’

Suzy says, ‘I know it must all still be pretty raw for you and that’s why you sound like a conspiracy theorist. But I want you to know, I’m not mad about it. You just strike me as a person who is quite loose and lost.’

I swallow. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘that’s the opposite of how I am. Neither of you know me at all.’ I turn to Suzy. ‘Listen. He’ll just be telling the next one you’re crazy in a few years, because this is what men do. They make women pass the baton of crazy.’

Suzy shakes her head. ‘Art is a feminist.’

I look at Art. ‘Thank you.’ My mouth is saying it on behalf of all of womankind. My eyes are saying it on behalf of My Disbelieving A-hole. ‘You’ve started laughing with just the bottom half of your jaw,’ I say to him. ‘Like a ventriloquist’s dummy.’

‘You’re just being vindictive now,’ Art says. I look in his eyes. There is nothing of him in there as he says this. He is Art imitating Life.

‘And please stop leaving comments on my posts,’ says Suzy. ‘It’s inappropriate.’

I punch the air and scream: ‘I KNEW YOU FUCKING KNEW ME!’ I look at Art. ‘VOILÀ!’ Then I regret speaking a French word because of Suzy’s perfect French.

‘I think I wouldn’t mind so much if you weren’t so … sales-y.’

‘Sales-y?’

‘You are quite sales-y, yes.’

‘This from the woman who has her name on a black scented candle from Bergamot Brothers, the UK’s foremost scented-candle-makers. “The Suzy”. I even fucking bought one. It’s going in the bin now. Why didn’t you just mute me? Or did you want me to know?’

‘It felt inappropriate to continue following you.’

I stare at her and try to split her with my compound eyes. The water in my inner bowl has evaporated into a desert whirring with locusts.

My mother says, ‘My daughter and I are leaving now.’

She leads me by the arm down the street. I still have things to say but I can’t formulate them properly so I allow myself to be led.

‘You always get the chance to say everything you want to someone,’ my mother says. ‘It’s okay. There’s no hurry. Let’s get home.’

‘Okay,’ I say quietly.

Art follows us. My mother hails a cab.