‘So I hear,’ she said lightly, but it was the lightness of steel. ‘The word is you’ll soon be cosying up to some Swedish woman called Ingrid in your own jaw-dropping, inimitable style.’ She eyed me beadily, but then saw something in my face: naked sorrow perhaps; fear even. She instantly regretted her jibe and, instead, reached out and put her arms around me. We held on tight.

‘Don’t do it this time, Luce,’ she whispered into my hair. ‘Do something else. Something brave. Leave him, hm?’

I shut my eyes and tried hard not to cry. I nodded as I stepped back. She still had her hands on my shoulders as I retrieved my keys. I couldn’t look at her.

‘I’ll help,’ she promised earnestly. ‘I didn’t mean that about the expensive bus, we’ve got pots of money. I’ll help, OK?’

I managed a laugh as I got in the car, still avoiding her worried eyes. ‘No need,’ I told her, shoving on my sunglasses, which were conveniently on the dashboard. I shut the door and buzzed the window down between us which gave me a moment. ‘No need. I promise. All’s well. But thank you,’ I told her, meaning it. I stretched out my hand and squeezed hers. Still not looking at her, and knowing I was on the cusp of dissolving, I started the car. Then I performed an immaculate three-point turn in my parents’ drive, gave her a cheery backward wave, and drove away.

2

As I drove home, I gave a long, shaky sigh into the privacy of my steering wheel. It was more one of exhaustion than anything else. More to do with the effort of keeping up appearances, the constant need to be on high alert. Helena had caught me unawares. And she was right, of course she was right. This time I really should be brave. Leave Michael. Ned and Imo said the same and they knew how much courage it would take. Up to a point. But then again, old habits died hard. Particularly when I’d had such success with my methods in the past. This sounds like an eminently foolish thing to say, but my husband’s particular brand of philandering was something I knew exactly how to deal with. I prided myself on it, because it was one of the few things, concerning Michael, that I did well. His more awful proclivities I had no control over. But just as some wives dealt with depression, anxiety – hypochondria, like Helena – my particular strand of man management took the form of subtly diverting my husband’s feet from straying to the sunny side of the street, where, as an attractive man, temptation beckoned, and back to the more prosaic side, where his family lived. Which might sound counterproductive – many adulterous husbands are easier to live with, apparently, but sadly, mine didn’t fit that mould. Fortunately, I knew exactly what to do.