Justifying Phil to her conscience was an endless system of rationalizations, balanced precariously against Justin’s shortcomings. Yes, she and Phil might only get together a handful of times a month, but every time they did it felt like their third date, i.e. matching underwear and flirtation. And Phil was actually a good boyfriend. He could do things, unlike Justin, who just moaned about being too busy or too important to grapple with life’s minor snags. Phil dealt with waiters, mice, parking wardens, fuse boxes, bad weather, PMT, all with unflustered confidence. He never made promises, but he never broke them either. And he was inventively, flatteringly good in bed. The flipside to this was a lot Tara didn’t know about what he did on the other twenty-five or so days, but they were usually too busy tearing off each other’s clothes to engage in deep discussion about the future, which Tara found surprisingly easy to live with after Justin’s micromanagement.

Sybil had been the step change. Getting a pet together – well, sort of – that had to mean something. You didn’t trust your cat with just anyone.

Tara stared at her message: Hey, Phil! How’s things? Sybil misses you – why don’t you come over for … Her finger hesitated over the screen; it was very easy to slide into innuendo with Phil.

It was already ten to nine. She couldn’t sit here thinking lewd thoughts all morning. She got out of the car, juggling the phone and her keys, still deliberating about how to finish the sentence without an obvious double entendre.

‘Tara!’

She jumped back, stumbled and swung round, looking to see who’d spotted her.

It was David. On the other side of the road, waving. Well, he was raising his hand in a formal greeting. The sort of cheery wave a post-war detective sergeant might give to a bright young vicar’s daughter. He was only missing his bicycle.

Tara considered pretending she was just admiring the car, but spotted her Mulberry bag on the back seat. Bollocks. Could she style it out? Could she leave the bag there for a few hours, come back later and …?

Her red purse peeked jauntily out of the top. Yoo hoo! Nick me! it said.

The very next lamp post even had a police notice about bag thefts on it. No, she couldn’t leave it. Damn.

And now David was crossing over, and in a few strides he was right there next to her.

‘Good morning!’ he said cheerily.

Tara pocketed her phone, beeped the car back open and grabbed her bag. ‘OK, you’ve got me,’ she said, swinging it over her shoulder. ‘Busted.’

His eyes twinkled. ‘Oh? How so?’

‘You know how so. Have you been waiting to catch me out? And don’t go fake-innocent on me,’ she went on. ‘In the kitchen that time with Jacqueline. You were all hint-y.’