‘I love you, Harry. And I always will. But it’s our kids holding us together, isn’t it? They’re the glue. But now they’re leaving, well, there’s an honest bit inside us both that knows we’re busy covering up the cracks. In years to come, we’ll just regret lying to ourselves. But I’m not lying to you now. It seems to me that women never got the memo that our lives belong to us; that we don’t need a permission slip from the principal’s office to ask really important questions, like, what do I want in life?

‘I know what you want – to nest. But I’ve nested, goddamn it! I want to spread my wings. Okay, my bingo wings,’ I joked, wobbling the flabby skin of my triceps. ‘At fifty, it’s time for me to face the fact that I will never be able to make a soufflé rise or head up a FTSE 100 company. Nor will I ever write a global bestseller that will wow Oprah and be optioned by Steven Spielberg. But what I do know is that my least favourite word in the world, besides “bathroom scales”, is “should”. As in, Ruby, you should suck up more to your boss. Ruby, you should keep a tidier house. Ruby, you should push your cuticles back. Ruby, you should do two hundred sit-ups a day. Ruby, you should have a pelvic floor your husband can trampoline off . . . My other most hated word in the English language is “could”. You could have worked on a national newspaper. You could have written a novel. Well, I no longer want to be a person of cast-iron whims. Which is why, once Mum’s probate is settled, I’m taking a little SKI trip – Spend Kids’ Inheritance. Well, some of it.’

This statement was met with a shell-shocked silence. After a moment, though, Emerald called out, ‘Good for you, sis!’

‘Touché, Rubes!’ echoed Amber.

‘I’m drawing up my bucket list, or my fuck it list, as I prefer to call it. And then I’m indulging in some HRT – husband replacement therapy. Only that doesn’t mean finding a replacement hubby, just a replacement life.

‘I’ve already explained everything to Zoe and Jake, and they don’t feel aggrieved. I pointed out that I’ve straightened their teeth, taught them to reverse park, finished their homework assignments, let them sweat in my clothes they weren’t supposed to borrow. But they’re cooked. They understand that it’s my turn now. I don’t want to keep putting things off until I “have time”. Because that time never comes, does it?