Several humdinging rows with Aleš had meant no lovemaking for four days. There was no Fantasy Ash any more to cheer her along, just typing callouses. When Aleš had set off for work that morning he’d left her with his VAT return to file instead of a kiss. All a stark reminder that you must be careful what you wished for. Her and her big witch mouth. Literally, she kept catching herself sucking her misshaped lip. A ‘pastie lip’ her dad would call it, although Bridge’s latest diet meant no pastry was allowed near it.

She returned home for a cottage cheese lunch at the folding picnic table, her sitting room unrecognisable as the cosy nest of a week ago, the familiar, squishy sofas in Aleš’s lock-up, stacks of flooring materials in their place. Last Friday – reeling from two days’ chaotic ‘on-the-job training’ in the midst of Compton Magna Primary School’s inspection – Bridge had come home to find her sitting room stripped bare, Aleš laying chipboard over her beloved flagstones in preparation for parquet she didn’t want, using her bad-spell pentacle as a design, his dedication absolute, his temper darkening daily.

Yesterday’s quarrel meant he had already abandoned the project. Bridge blamed black magic and too much lip.

A message from Pax lifted her spirits: See you around 3.30. Kes and I are making a cake. Don’t forget to bring your friend.

On your marks, get set – bake! She sent a row of smiley faces, then texted Carly: Still up for later? When a thumbs up came back, she quashed disappointment.

Bridge knew it was selfish to want to keep her playdate visit to the stud all to herself and yet a lifetime of chameleon friendships meant she sensed a mismatch. Carly was very black and white, lacking the molten, volcanic emotion which had drawn Bridge so instinctively to Pax, a woman who had stuck her head above the married-with-kids parapet to admit what all the rest of them struggled to say. She was a freedom fighter, whereas Carly was in for the long siege.

Her phone buzzed – Petra joining in the Bags’ WhatsApp chat at last. Keep the footballers coming, ladies! Need inspiration. Beards mandatory… I have Cavaliers nostril-deep in muff here.

Raising a dry chuckle as she imagined Gill’s shocked face reading it, Bridge was tempted to interject with I’ve told Aleš my lady garden is going wild if he doesn’t shave his, but discarded the idea because it was only half the story and she didn’t trust them not to guess the rest.

She yawned. Last night’s row – another corker – had been a game of two halves, the first of which had been Aleš’s discovery of naked George Best on her phone’s gallery, along with Lineker in his underpants and Ginola all silver-foxed up in a tight polo neck. He was now convinced she had a kink for ageing soccer stars. Served him right for snooping, Bridge thought as her phone lit up with laughing-crying faces from Mo.