‘Let me see – dressing up in a rubber Batsuit, dragging ten kilos of equipment around on my back before plummeting into deep water, only to have to drag it all back up onto dry land again an hour later . . . It’s just way, way too much like marriage for my liking.’

‘Speaking of which – any word from that mongrel you wed?’ Emerald asked, curiously.

I shook my head and continued laying out my pyjamas on the bed. There were daily loving messages from my kids: So glad you’re going to be okay, Mum. Have fun! and so on, and a few from friends I hadn’t slagged off at my infamous birthday bash, but total radio silence from Harry. The truth began to cling to me like a chill – he no longer loved me.

Emerald was fuming on my behalf. ‘What a pain in the arse he is.’

‘If I could isolate the pain just to my arse, that would be a relief.’

‘Well, bugger that bastard! Come with me to the disco and nab yourself a joy boy. Let’s give ourselves something to talk about when we’re in the old people’s home.’

‘How could I ever get a joy boy? Not even my husband wants me.’ I checked my email inbox for a message from Harry for, oh, only the hundredth time that day. Nothing, as usual.

‘You’re the one who talked about seizing the day and carpe-dieming like there’s no tomorrow,’ Emerald reminded me.

I automatically checked my WhatsApp, in case I’d missed something. Nada.

‘Don’t you want to get into a man’s pants and not have to launder them later?’

‘Yes, but . . .’ I checked Messenger for Harry’s name. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

‘Good god,’ Emerald gasped, as she struggled with the zipper of one of her new dresses. ‘I’m piling on the pounds. It’s that bloody dessert trolley. Thank god I’m going to shag it off later.’ Tonight she’d settled on the whole Belle Époque courtesan look, complete with pearls draped on her near-naked breasts.

‘I’m sure the extra seven pounds is just your eyelash extensions,’ I joshed.

‘It’s probably not the cake, but the cocktails,’ Amber rebuked, as Emerald poured herself another glass of champagne.

‘Hey, I drink responsibly . . . I haven’t spilt one drop while climbing up to sit on the face of an R-rated Romeo.’

I was only half listening as I scrolled through friends’ Facebook updates. And, suddenly, there was Harry at the beach with his board, smiling, surrounded by laughing young women from the surf club. Surfing! Laughing! Smiling! Surrounded by adoring young women! It was a punch to my solar plexus. His wife was dying and there he was, having fun in the sun. Well, okay, his wife wasn’t exactly dying, but what if I were?