‘Jesus, Harry! You made me feel so guilty that I’d accused you of being unfaithful. You even swore on Donald Bradman’s grave!’

‘Yeah, well, if you knew me at all, you’d know I don’t even like bloody cricket,’ Harry said, petulantly.

A darker thought clouded my mind. All over the Insular Peninsular, photos of Harry’s ruggedly handsome smiling face were tacked to noticeboards or beamed out from under fridge magnets, offering his ‘Hire a Hubby’ services. How many other lonely, unappreciated women had taken up his offer? And in how many ways? ‘Jesus, Harry. Exactly how many ladies love the tradies?’

‘What? None! Gimme a break.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ I seethed.

‘Look, I can’t explain it either! I know it’s an inexcusable act of first-grade scumbaggery. But Amber so reminded me of you, but a more confident, successful, domesticated version, I guess. And she kept feeding me. Oh, the food. The tarts, the trifles, the banana cakes, the lamingtons – how can a lammie taste that good?’

‘What?’ I repeated, duly horrified. ‘You betrayed me for some banana cake and a lamington?’

‘My dick just went into overdrive and the rest of me was forced to follow. I don’t know what got into me. A midlife crisis, maybe.’

‘Oh, puh-lease! How can you have a midlife crisis when you’ve never left puberty?’ I fumed.

‘And Amber was so chuffed by everything I did. She heaped praise on me all the time. Unlike you. You never even mention all the DIY I do for you. She really appreciated me.’

His words echoed in my head like an explosion. ‘Appreciation? What about how unappreciated I feel? Doesn’t that count? Appreciation for what you do? You’re not a surgeon wielding a scalpel, Harry. Hammering a shelf over a woman’s sink to hold unpaid bills is not exactly rocket science.’

‘Hey!’ The voice was Scott’s. He was striding up the garden path, waving his barbecue fork. ‘The steaks are nearly done,’ he said. ‘We’re waiting on that platter, Harry. What’s the ho, ho, hold up?’

Amber’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. Her face was blank and her lips moved as if she were reading from an invisible book.

‘What?’ Scott asked. ‘What are you saying? Speak up. I can’t hear you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Mate.’ Harry’s flat, ironical voice had developed a tremor.

‘What?’ Scott asked again. ‘What have I missed?’

Nobody spoke for a full minute. Nerves jangled more than the reindeer bells on the plastic Santas sleighing across Ruth’s roof.

‘Apparently your wife has been having an affair with her brother-in-law,’ Ruth said. ‘Forget the turkey, Harry. Your goose is well and truly cooked,’ she concluded with sour glee.

From Scott’s limitless legal lexicon only one feeble word sprang to his erudite mind. ‘What?’