The conversation runs along pleasantly, aided by the tinkling of wine in her head, and Hilary thinks of all the dinners she has shared with these women over the years, and all the other times, too, when life’s difficulties entered the fray, requiring the friendships to step up a little. When Evelyn went through her cancer treatment three years ago, Hilary was on hand, calling her religiously after each round of chemotherapy, taking her for walks along the pier to get some exercise, clear her head, talk. When Anna’s marriage went through a rough patch, Hilary arranged for all four of them to head away for a weekend in a spa retreat where they could be pampered, get drunk, cry, do whatever was necessary to bolster Anna’s resolve. And when Hilary herself went through her own trial of sorrows – the string of miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy that led to an inevitable surrender of hope – she had felt supported by the many kindnesses of her friends.

‘You know, there’s nothing I couldn’t tell you girls,’ Anna had declared on that weekend away when she had given them chapter and verse on David’s affairs, his cruelties and deceits, the shame she felt at having put up with them for so long. ‘I feel like I can tell you the deepest, darkest secrets and you still wouldn’t judge me.’

The others had loudly concurred, and Hilary had made soft noises of agreement. But, in her heart, she knew differently. Because some secrets are too dark to tell. And people do judge. Even the strongest friendships, in the face of horrors, would balk and break, run for cover.

Inevitably, her thoughts turn to Charlotte, as they so often do. She thinks of an evening long ago when Charlotte had tapped on the patio door with the stone in her ring, a bottle of wine in one hand and some flowers in the other. ‘A welcome gift,’ she said.

Her voice was throaty, her manner smooth and confident, and she listened to Hilary’s effusive thanks – for the flowers, for the use of the flat – while her eyes looked beyond, flickering over the room and taking in the mess of their possessions, most of them still in boxes. Charlotte’s dress, her hair, her casual elegance made Hilary feel drab and scruffy in comparison.

‘Why don’t you and your husband come upstairs later, hmm?’ Charlotte had suggested. ‘Once you’ve settled in. Come up and we’ll have a little drink.’

It was evening by the time they mounted the steps, tired from their unpacking.

‘Just make yourselves at home there,’ Charlotte had instructed, while she disappeared into the kitchen to fix their drinks.

Greg collapsed on the sofa, exhausted, legs akimbo, while Hilary sat on the edge of an armchair, alert, looking all around her at the scrolled marble of the fireplace, the cornicing, the ceiling so very far above their heads.