How could I not have known he was cheating on me? Clearly, I was one neuron short of a synapse. Could there be life after infidelity? Well, maybe, if he’d admit it: perhaps then, after a lot of kowtowing and pleas and abject begging, I could forgive him. It would hurt, but my heartache would eventually pass. But Harry’s denial via voicemail echoed in my head like an explosion. The refutation hurt even more than the affair itself.

Both my sisters had called. Amber, a chef, had left a message of anguished love and distress and the offer of chicken soup and/or internal organs; Emerald, a vet, left a list of medical questions and advice.

I rang back my oldest sister first.

‘Emerald, I’m so, so sorry about yesterday,’ I blurted at the sound of her hello.

‘Due to a technical error, you seem to have missed out on having a cyclone named after you,’ Emerald responded, dryly.

‘Oh, god. Was I that bad? A mix of alcohol and shocking news brought out the worst in me. Am I in much trouble?’

‘Trouble? Oh, no, you’re not in trouble . . . Not unless you count dangling over a cliff face by a single pube “trouble”.’

‘Oh, Jesus. That horrendous, huh? I feel sick. Can I come over?’

‘Ah . . . Only if you happen to have a bombproof, flame-retardant, armoured vehicle handy in your garage, because my apparently “money-laundering” husband wants to kill you. Which in itself is ironic, as you told the world that you have a death sentence already.’ Her voice softened. ‘Is it true, Rubes? Or were you just shit-faced? Tell me exactly what the doctor said.’

My mouth felt like the bottom of a budgie cage and my teeth were all furry, as if they were each wearing a little coat. ‘I need protein. Meet me for lunch.’ I tried to think of a venue appropriate for social lepers. ‘Convict Cafe. One o’clock . . .’

‘What? That’s miles away! I’ll need a list of edible berries and a compass to find the place. Plus I have a cat hernia op scheduled this arvo.’

‘You still have to eat. Just for half an hour. Pleeeaaassseee.’

‘Is Amber going?’

‘I’m going to ask her, yes. It’s an SOS emergency. This is not a drill. Repeat: This is not a drill.’

It was a code we sisters only used for times of dire distress – like coming home from school to find our mother totally pissed, lying in a pool of her own vomit. Or our father being shot at with an air rifle by the husband of a woman he’d been seeing on the sly.

‘If Amber’s coming, then no. You know I’m not talking to that cow right now.’

‘Not even for my dying wish?’

There was a pause big enough to accommodate a fleet of semi-trailers. ‘Fudge,’ my older sister finally said.