‘What’s the problem?’ Gordon said. ‘This is my best T-shirt.’

He was wearing Stranglers merch—he’d taken Ben to the concert, for God’s sake, a skinful of legalised misogyny—untucked over paint-spattered jeans and Blundstones. If he wanted to give the club an up-yours and show what a slob he was, she wasn’t going to gratify him by listing the clothing regulations he was breaking.

‘I’ve told him to make himself scarce,’ Norma said. ‘Go on, shoo!’

Gordon bowed mock-ceremoniously and dragged his feet back to his car.

‘We tried,’ Norma said.

Kelly wondered if Norma was reflecting on the end of the marriage, Gordon’s dress sense, or her inability to get him interested in golf. Or just Gordon in general.

‘He used to come and caddy for Ron, but that was as much as he could take,’ Norma explained. ‘I think he was scared of the way Ron carried on. He nearly burst a foofer valve. Gordon never forgot seeing his father in that state. You should have seen his swing; it was like an octopus falling out of a tree. Every now and then he would hit a ball miles down the centre of the fairway, and that convinced him his swing was fine. You couldn’t tell him that the straight hits were the flukes and the wild ones were the entirely predictable outcome of that swing. Oh, that poor man was not built for golf, but he couldn’t give it up. Now. Jump in?’

Kelly tried to stay relaxed while listening to Norma’s monologue. Norma, once talking, was hard to stop. It was going to be an enjoyable social round (Kelly’s determination speaking), but a long one (reality). Norma drove them around the front of the clubhouse to the first tee. Kelly ducked into the pro shop to have a little chat with Ricky, one of the assistant professionals who had been giving her some late-afternoon swing lessons.

‘Good to see Norma back on the horse,’ Ricky said with a double-entendre grin that Kelly couldn’t quite decipher. She got the flirty undertone, she just didn’t get what it had to do with Norma.

‘She’s only just out of hospital,’ Kelly said. ‘She’s not able to play yet.’

‘It was the talk of the club,’ Ricky said. That grin again. ‘Good that she’s fixed—more than I can say for the old cart. It was a write-off.’

‘Thank you, Ricky, I’ll see you later.’

‘Can’t wait.’

The only reason Kelly hadn’t asked Ricky to meet for a drink at the Hilton was that she still had enough remnant self-respect not to fulfil every cliché of the divorced woman. Not an assistant golf pro, surely. Instead, she dated twenty-two-year-old surfers off Tinder. But Ricky was cute.