‘I juss can’t believe it,’ Tamsin snivelled into her phone. ‘I mean, who KNOWS how long’s been going on, ’slike she’s been sneaking around behind my back for MONTHS, maybe even years – and after all I’ve DONE for her – and now I can’t go back in, iss like iss where I live and I can’t even go BACK there.’ She sniffed back a large quantity of snot and tears and drank it down. It tasted a bit like chicken stock.

‘Have you called Callum?’ Serena was saying – gently, entirely reasonably – but this only made Tamsin cry harder. ‘Tam. Timtam. Listen. I can’t really understand you, you’re too upset. I’m coming to get you. Just tell me where you are. Are you near Mummy’s?’

It was just about possible to pick the word ‘Portobello’ out of the mess of Tamsin’s reply.

‘Portobello, that’s great,’ said Serena. ‘Make sure you’re walking south, all right? Back up towards the station. Then when you get to the Bayswater Road, walk right and stay on the right side of the road. I’ll meet you halfway.’

Tamsin was so surprised she almost stopped crying. ‘Wha, you’re walking all the way from Clapham?’

‘No, I already told you—’ Serena began impatiently, then continued in a softer tone. ‘Sorry. I’m at a party, in Holland Park, I’m literally just round the corner. But I don’t have to stay. I’ll come and meet you and then we can either go back to the party or go somewhere just the two of us and talk. It’s totally up to you.’

‘Oh, Bean, you’re amazing, thank you so much,’ snuffled Tamsin.

She opted for the party, for music and alcohol and people she didn’t know and didn’t care about.

* * *

Although Tamsin didn’t know it – would never know it – she and Serena would pass, on their way to the party, the very pub in which Callum was sitting. After his dismissal he cycled home out of sheer numb habit. It was only 3 p.m. when he arrived back, but he grew worried that Leah might come home early and find him there. He turned his phone off and went out for a walk. Then he became paranoid that he might bump into someone he knew, so he ducked into a pub he was certain none of his friends would ever consider drinking in. No artisan ales, no wasabi nuts. The Live And Let Live had obviously not cleaned its carpets in several years; it still smelled of stale smoke from before the ban. All of the drinkers were over fifty. Only one of them was a woman. Callum ordered a pint of Stella and sat in a corner facing a television showing the Grand Prix. Whenever anyone came close to him, he feigned intense absorption in the race.