‘Look – when I was at school, I always thought I would take the world by storm. Well, weather experts have downgraded my career trajectory from “storm” to “light drizzle”. Do you remember when I won a place on that creative writing course and Mum said, “You? A writer? You don’t even know that a double negative is a complete no-no!” I just accepted her dismissal of the idea, like it was an edict from the Vatican. I should have taken that cadetship with the Herald, but Mum just gave me that smile that can burn five layers of skin off your face—’

‘Oh, I know that smile.’ Amber shivered.

‘—then she laughed and said, “You’re not exactly Ita Buttrose material, dear.” I could have finished that novel that’s been languishing in my drawer for decades . . . But there was always Mum’s negative voice ringing in my ears. “No matter how much you push the envelope, Ruby, you’ll still just be stationery.” Clearly I need a twelve-step program to break my low self-esteem habit. I mean, what am I? A fifty-year-old has-been hack on the local rag. Could have, would have, should have. Well, no more! This is my season of “Yes”. From now on, I’m going to eat carbs, I’m going to eat salt, I’m going to drink martinis. Today is the first day of the rest of my hedonistic life. I want people to say, “She died with her eyelashes on in her battle with Kev, that hairy aggressive pancreatic tumour dude.”’

I was talking such shit I could have qualified as a lifesaver at a sewage plant. But a little lie like this wasn’t a huge sin, was it? I wasn’t coveting my neighbour or taking a life or anything. A couple of Hail Marys on the way home should do it . . . Okay, more like a couple of decades’ worth of dedicated rosary-fondling. But it would be worth it if I could get my sisters aboard that cruise and patch things up between us.

‘Look, I didn’t just have a light-bulb moment yesterday, I had a blinding nuclear fusion flash. I don’t want to be a member of the exploited, exhausted, taken-for-granted mothers club anymore. Or put up with an unfaithful spouse . . .’

‘Has Harry confessed who he cheated with?’ Amber asked, cautiously.

‘No, the arsehole.’

‘Harry’s not an arsehole, he’s a regular ankle – three feet lower than an arsehole,’ Emerald decried in a gravelly undertone.

‘It’s just opened up an old wound. Remember when he cheated on me with Tracey Chapman in Year 12 and we broke up for two years? Maybe he’s a sexual kleptomaniac.’