‘No. We’ve talked about everything else, but somehow it’s not possible to talk about sex straightforwardly. I can’t anyway and when someone I know does it, it somehow makes me cringe. It sounds fake, or boastful, or makes me feel inadequate, or prurient, or something. I don’t know. I couldn’t even talk about sex with Adrian, for God’s sake. So what’s that – you can have sex with someone but not talk about it with them? Isn’t that strange? That’s why girls get pregnant – they can have sex in the back of a car no problem, but can’t ask the boy to put on a condom.’

Or later, pushing the half-finished pasta aside: ‘He once said that he was chucking me on the rubbish heap.’

‘That’s unbelievably cruel.’

‘I felt so humiliated, I can’t describe it. I could hardly bring myself to set foot outside. I thought everyone was looking at me with this awful pity – well, they probably were. Still are. I’ll always be someone who was left.’

‘No!’

‘It’s true. Whatever happens next in my life, I was left. I wanted him and he didn’t want me. He threw me over.’

‘That’s not the way to think of it.’

‘It’s hard not to. You don’t know how that feels, do you? I bet no one’s ever left you.’

‘Well …’ said Karen vaguely.

‘No. There you are.’ She pushed a forkful of pasta into her mouth and chewed. It tasted like wet cardboard in her mouth. ‘I went to Frankie’s flat, you know.’ All of a sudden, Irene didn’t feel so tipsy. She looked carefully across at Karen, who sat straighter in her chair.

‘I did know, actually,’ she said neutrally.

‘I thought you might. What did she say about it?’

‘She said – um, she said you were distraught.’

‘I was crazy. Out of my mind with it.’ Just the memory of that evening made Irene feel sick with shame. Only the thought of the orange curving beautifully through the air cheered her up.

‘She feels very bad about it, you know.’

‘Good.’

‘She always liked you.’

‘Does that make it better?’

‘No, of course not. It makes it worse – that’s the point.’

‘You were like my second family when I was a teenager. I used to love the way you were this great welcoming gang, while at home it was just me and my poor mother in our quiet little house.’

‘I’m sorry. I feel like it’s my fault somehow.’

‘Oh no.’ The air went out of Irene, leaving her shrivelled and sad. She rubbed her face. ‘It’s not even really Frankie’s fault. I know that. Women always blame the other woman, don’t they?’

‘Do you blame him then?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’

‘We’ve all been worrying about you, you know.’

‘Have you?’