I walk with them to James’s area. Sarah is commending me on my maintenance. I point out the bulbs that will flower soon, and idiotically remark on the fertility of the soil. We are standing by a small, obsessively tended plot surrounded by a massive, derelict, unruly garden. I’m sure Lucy has no idea how to behave, but she says how special the area is, and I appreciate the comment as if she has offered a significant positive insight into our lives and not a limp platitude for the ex. And then I walk away, because I figure Sarah will want some time alone with James. Lucy stands with her for a moment and then strolls over to me, obviously drawing a similar conclusion. And we watch like embarrassed voyeurs as Sarah kneels and begins to cry full-body sobs that I have seen so many times. Just as many times she has told me to stay away from her suffering. I am torn between desperate sympathy and self-protection. That’s a rough summing up of the failure between Sarah and me.

Lucy puts a hand on my shoulder. It is the nicest thing a person could do for me, but I still have to stop my body from responding like it is under attack. Lucy seems to know this, too. For once, I remember I am not the only one who suffers. Lucy’s understanding wins me, and for all the jealousy and confusion I feel, she is a friend. She could have sat in the car, or treated me like a rival or the enemy, and she hasn’t. It is not possible for me to dislike her humanity. And so when Sarah stands again and heads towards us, drying her eyes, I offer them a drink, a meal, a coffee — anything. Sarah’s lovely face tells me that, for once, I’ve done the right thing. They decline the offer; both hug me like sisters, and are gone. It feels like a missed opportunity. We could have talked and laughed and drunk until we had got at least some of the darkness out of ourselves. They say they’ll be back, and I suppose they will.