She hadn’t had a single word from John since he’d left two days ago, presumably for Edinburgh with his nubile young girlfriend in search of his thrill-seeking new life. ‘Dad’s gone on holiday,’ she’d managed to say brightly to the children over breakfast the following morning, to which Sam had frowned and asked, ‘Without us?’, shortly followed by Daisy’s ‘But that’s not fair!’ They’d both sounded so offended and cross that Robyn might well have laughed at their indignation. If she hadn’t felt like bursting into tears, that was.

Of course all four of them were supposed to be going on holiday together, to Portugal for a week in August, the flights and villa booked long ago. Would John have got over his mid-life meltdown and come home by then, apologetic and humble? she wondered in anguish. Would she even want to splash about in the kidney-shaped, azure-blue pool with him, after his devastating, life-tipped-upside-down betrayal? Or would there just be three of them getting on the plane together, one ghostly seat remaining empty on the flight out? She imagined the Herculean tasks of trying to be jolly and holiday-ish all on her own, of having to find the villa (and drive the hire car!) by herself and then be responsible for everything else: the security, the food, the day-trips, the fun. She imagined the subdued evenings once the children were in bed and she was alone: drinking her way through bottles of local rosé and slapping mosquitoes from her legs, while listening to the families in neighbouring villas laughing and enjoying themselves. Holiday? Right now it felt as if it would be more like a punishment than a week to savour.

She rolled over on the sofa into a more comfortable position and tried to motivate herself to venture into the kitchen to make lunch. The spirit was willing – not to mention hungry – but the flesh was weak. Too weak to move off the sofa and cut slices of bread, even though her stomach had been rumbling plaintively for the last twenty minutes. Starving seemed like the easier option. Starving, or waiting for her mum to come back from work and make her something, anyway. Which was admittedly kind of tragic, but that was what her life had apparently become now – heartbreak causing her to regress to being a helpless child again, the girl who just wanted her mummy to make everything better.

Alison had answered her distress call on Wednesday night, driving over all dressed up for some reason (which, in hindsight, was odd, although Robyn had been so upset, she hadn’t got round to asking why), and she’d been tending to her ever since. She had listened to Robyn sob out the whole humiliating story, then had poured her a glass of wine and run her a hot bath, giving her a series of mini pep-talks throughout the remains of the evening.