I hold a hand out to Sarah in a ‘why?’ gesture.

‘I want to know what it tastes like.’

‘Then eat it yourself.’ She’s rightly surprised by this suggestion. ‘Forget I said that. Get your sandals. Let’s go visit Auntie Lou.’

We need to do something to fill our day, and I need the company of an adult who won’t look at me with disgust. I’ll tell Lou I won’t be coming to the street party tonight, and that Mark has gone and I’m scared because I don’t know when he’s coming back. I’m not sure what reason I’ll give for our fight, but I know I can think of one.

The two-minute walk to Lou and Andrew’s house is made longer as the children stop to pick up sticks and rocks and flowers, peek inside people’s letterboxes, and squat to peer at a white cat hiding in the shade under a car. Which is fine. I’m in no rush.

When we’re close to Lou’s house, the kids break into a run and scurry up the driveway, arguing about who gets to knock on the door. They all bang on it at once.

When Lou opens the door, smiling and making faces at their noise, I can see she’s three sheets to the wind.

‘Shhh, Uncle Andy’s snoozing,’ she says to the children. ‘Kids are out back. Tiptoes.’ She turns to me. ‘Went to a champagne breakfast. Head Something Someone from Andrew’s work. Boring as batshit. What could I do but drink?’ She points at Sarah’s all-white outfit and the headband to which I’ve taped an empty toilet roll.

‘She’s a unicorn.’

‘Ah, be the change . . .’ Lou makes a shushing noise as we pass through the living room to the sun-drenched deck. Andrew is lying on the couch, snoring so loudly I can’t imagine what noise the kids or I could make that would be heard. My kids and Lou’s fall into a happy tumble on the lawn, shaded by the tall leafy line of bamboo that grows alongside the fence. I sit on a bench beside the slat table, under a canvas umbrella patterned with pink and orange flowers.

‘Wine?’ Lou asks, and before I can answer she’s heading back into the kitchen, muttering, ‘Yes. A little. Nearly lunchtime.’

She returns with a bowl of peanuts, a cask of moselle and two plastic cups. ‘Hair of the dog.’

‘I don’t think you can call it that when you haven’t stopped drinking,’ I say with a smile. ‘But sure, fill her up.’

Since she’s my friend, Lou agrees with every word I say, every edited half-truth and deluded justification, every lie about Mark and I arguing about the unfairness of our domestic arrangement. Since she’s spent the morning drinking, she agrees voluminously.

‘Bastard,’ she says when I tell her that Mark stormed out last night, insisting he did more than most men would. ‘Bastard,’ when I tell her he hasn’t been back since. Her elbow slips sideways, so she’s propped up on an angle. Her makeup isn’t quite where it should be: lipstick smudges the lip of her cup, mascara flecks above and below her lashes, and there is a rub of blue eye shadow on the side of her face. She stares intently at me, pausing before she speaks again. ‘But he’s not actually a bastard. You know that, don’t you? You’ll sort this out. He loves you, love.’