The next morning, I hear a knock at the front door.

Woof runs down the stairs, barking excitedly. I open the door even though I recognise the knock.

Lou and I are wearing the same dress. I hate her afresh for the fact I’ll now think of her whenever I pull this dress off its hanger. I will never again pull this dress off the hanger. Woof leaps forward in enthusiastic greeting.

‘We match.’ She smiles awkwardly, bends down to stroke Woof’s head. I stand on the threshold with my hand on the door. ‘Except one of us is a dumb bitch.’

The sun shines onto one side of her face. Worry wrinkles cut into her forehead. I reach forward and grab Woof by the flea collar, pull him back to me.

‘Me. I’m the bitch. Abby, I’m sorry. I swear, I’ll make this up to you. I’ll –’

‘Is that it? I have things to do.’

I drag Woof closer, point him towards the stairs and pat him on the rear. He ignores me, stands by my side. I step back so I can close the door.

‘Wait, I have something for you. A first peace offering.’ She picks up a thick wooden mask she’s placed against the doorframe. It’s the length of her torso, stained a dark brown, and topped with a shock of coarse black hair. The gawping oval mouth is circled with red, and the cowrie-shell eyes are ringed by thick stripes of yellow and blue. It’s the face of a morning-after drag queen as drawn by a child, or Munch’s scream made solid.

‘That’s hideous. Why would you bring me that?’

She’s surprised. ‘I thought you loved the masks. You always say such nice things about them.’

‘I don’t want a mask.’

‘Andrew says this is a good one.’

‘So he doesn’t know you’ve been sleeping with my husband?’

‘He does. We’re not speaking. He’s letting his knuckles do the talking.’ She has a large bruise on her upper arm.

‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you.’

She holds the mask out to me. ‘Please take it. You might like nailing my head to your wall.’

I put the mask on the floor behind me. I’d drop it but it would crack the tiles. ‘I’ll enjoy setting it on fire at some point.’

Woof circles the mask, sniffing and growling.

Lou cries in large, loud sobs. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry. I was wrong, such a bad friend.’

‘Is that what you’re going to call it? Bad friendship?’

She turns her palms up, lifts her shoulders, wordlessly pleading. Her nose runs, leaking clear thick fluid that touches her lip. I have a tissue in my pocket.

‘How long were you a bad friend for? Were you a bad friend in my house? I mean, aside from the day of the flood when I risked my life to carry your garbage here to safety, fed and clothed your children? Were you being a bad friend and fucking my husband while I cooked your children’s dinner? Or after we spent a day together at the pool? Were you one of his million trips to the hardware store or work?’