‘And Scott would be at his wits’ end without me, too. His cases are so harrowing. He just doesn’t cope without my emotional support. I’ll cook wholesome food to build up your immunity, Ruby. I’ll massage unguents into your temples. But . . .’ Amber’s face flickered and tensed. All her eye make-up had washed away with her tears, leaving her looking young and vulnerable. ‘I can’t just abandon my family. Or Mum, for that matter. Not at such short notice.’

Defeated, I slumped back into my seat. Feeling the sludge of desolation in my heart, I signalled to the waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary. My hangover was back with a vengeance. I didn’t just need hair of the dog, I needed a whole canine pelt. ‘Oh, and hot chips,’ I added. My head had started thumping so badly I wanted to ask the woman at the next table to mute her knitting needles.

Emerald squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t be angry with me, Rubes – after all, I’m the one who’ll be plucking your chin hairs for you when you go into a coma.’

‘Emerald! Is that comment entirely necessary?’ Amber snapped, her eyebrows taut as an archer’s bow.

‘It’s okay, Amber. I’m not upset.’ I don’t even have cancer, I wanted to add, but said instead, sorrowfully, ‘You’re lucky that you’re both so happily married. Just promise me that one of you will always come to the hospital with those tweezers.’

I felt exhausted. No wonder – I’d been on my metaphorical toes for so long, I could’ve joined the corps de ballet.

‘We will,’ my sisters said, in another odd display of unity.

I sat there long after Emerald and Amber had dashed back to work. The nudging and jerks and winks and whispered asides of other customers were not lost on me. Even out here, at the very tip of the Insular Peninsular, it seemed word had got out about my bravura birthday meltdown. I felt like a balloon that had lost most of its air. What the hell would I do now?

One thing was for sure – when fate closes one door, it crushes your fingers in the hinges of another.

5

Later, when it was all over and the dust and drama of that summer had finally settled, Amber told me what happened post-lunch, after we parted that day. Let me draw the picture for you . . .

Amber’s life was like a giant jigsaw puzzle, with all the little pieces perfectly slotted together to match the coloured photo on the box marked ‘happy family’ and ‘successful working mother’. But timing and organisation were everything. The woman juggled so much she could be in the Cirque du Soleil. After our anguished meal at Convict Cafe, Amber had scurried back to her office to supervise the catering for three parties. They were one chef down, so she’d had to stay late dicing and slicing.