I must be crazy, I decide, as I make my way towards Richenda’s front door the next day. How have I allowed myself to be dragged into this? Mike was furious when I told him what Cindy was planning, and practically forbade me from coming.

‘This isn’t about you,’ he fumed. ‘I mean, it is a bit, but it’s mainly about Cindy and her arsehole husband. She’s setting you up as a scapegoat, and that’s totally unfair.’

‘If it helps her to get closure though,’ I offered weakly.

‘Sod her closure. What about your closure? Who’s looking after you in all this? Maybe I should pull a sickie and come along as your wingman.’

‘I’m a big girl,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll hold my own.’

I don’t feel like a big girl as I reach out to ring the doorbell. I feel like a naughty schoolchild who’s been summoned to the head teacher’s office. The situation hasn’t been helped by the fact that Luke called as I was parking the car to tell me he was just leaving and couldn’t wait to see me. I hope Richenda manages to intercept him before he arrives at my flat and finds I’m not there.

‘Tilly, you made it. Do come in.’ Richenda sounds more like she’s greeting a lunch guest than her son’s soon-to-be ex-lover. ‘We’re just in the sitting room. You know the way. You can hang your coat on the rack here.’

Any chance of escape is cut off as she stays firmly behind me in the hallway. I feel a little like I’m being marched to the gallows as I turn into the sitting room.

Cindy is sitting in the armchair under the window, but gets to her feet as soon as she sees me. The first thing that strikes me about her, besides her terribly neat baby bump, is that she is absolutely flawless. Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail, but it has the kind of soft sheen that you only see in shampoo adverts on TV. Her pale skin is like porcelain and totally blemish-free, apart from one small mole on her neck to remind you that she is actually human. Her blue eyes are set wide, giving her a slightly Scandinavian appearance, and her nose has that slight button-like upturn at the end that people pay cosmetic surgeons thousands to try to reproduce. I’m briefly distracted enough to wonder if it’s all natural before I’m brought back to earth with a thud as she speaks.

‘You must be Tilly,’ she says in a voice utterly devoid of warmth, holding out her hand. ‘Thank you for coming.’