But then her mind would snag on the memory of the stiff expression of his wife, who, after one lightning assessment of her husband’s disquiet, seemed to have jumped to a damning conclusion, possibly even the truth. Frankie cringed as she remembered the way the woman had tightened her grip possessively on her husband’s arm, how desperate she’d been to wrench him away.

‘Well, I’m sorry, Jeanie,’ Frankie said aloud now, as the traffic crawled to yet another standstill. ‘I didn’t mean to upset anyone. But I do exist. I am a real person. And like it or not, that’s partly down to your beloved husband.’

‘So he’d put his foot down, telling her, “No, it’s too late, we’re over”, and she was absolutely gutted, begging him, pleading with him to change his mind – but he was so angry, you could see the hatred in his eyes, and he pushed past her, really roughly, to get out of the house.’

‘God,’ said Robyn, shelling peas at her mum’s kitchen table.

‘And then she lost her balance and fell over right there in the hallway, banging her head on the radiator as she went down. So she’s lying there, not moving, and you can see on his face, he’s thinking: Oh, shit, have I killed her? What have I done? – and then it was the end. So we won’t find out if she’s dead or alive until next week!’ Alison’s eyes glittered with the thrill of it all as she peeled carrots; she was a lifelong fan of Casualty and never missed an episode. I can’t possibly come out, she would say if invited anywhere on a Saturday night. Sometimes with an incredulous laugh in her voice, as if the question was absurd. Not when my favourite programme’s on!

Robyn wouldn’t have minded so much if her mum didn’t have a similar must-watch show for every single night of the week, which meant she effectively never went out socially these days. And no, don’t be silly, of course she didn’t want to watch anything later, on catch-up. It wasn’t the same! She was part of some telly-lovers’ Internet forum where they’d all chat excitedly to one another online during a programme; dissecting plot threads, speculating on potential twists the story might take, aiming to spot ‘whodunnit’ from the outset. Alison had recently been asked to become one of the forum moderators, which meant she felt obliged to spend each evening keeping an eye on the unfolding discussions. ‘Stops me getting into mischief,’ she would say, but Robyn was starting to wish her mum would actually indulge in more mischief, not less.