He seemed so humble these days, it kept taking her by surprise. It was like talking to a stranger, a reduced version of the man she’d been married to, and it was hard to know how to reply. How was she? She was pretty bloody well, actually, thanks for asking, John. Coming to the end of her first term back at the university, having loved every minute of it: the lectures, the research, the camaraderie. There was even talk of her jetting off to San Francisco in the spring for a conference on Genetic and Protein Engineering, which sounded amazing. All of this while juggling Sam’s first term at secondary school, managing to put dinner on the table every night and keeping on top of the laundry. It was busy, sure, but at least that left her with barely a minute in which to miss her ex-husband. More importantly, it was incredibly satisfying, as if her life had rich new seams running through it, full of interest and opportunity.

Perhaps it would be rubbing John’s nose in it to articulate all of this to him in detail, though. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said blandly instead. ‘You?’

He started talking about a job he was hoping to go for, in a big car plant out of town; there was some old contact he had there, apparently, which he hoped might mean they could circumnavigate his lack of a good reference from the university and his exile of shame. She tuned out, nodding politely while trying not to laugh at the way her mum was letting rip on the dance floor with the knitting-group divas and John’s aunts. Look at that woman go, she thought admiringly. Alison was a changed person these days, joining a Pilates class as well as hanging out with her new knitting mates (‘They are just the best women!’ she had cried to Robyn in delight) and whizzing about in her snazzy new Golf. Not only that, but she’d also recently met up with Tom, her very first love, from way back when, and he was still, apparently, the greatest kisser she had ever met. Wasn’t life oddly circular sometimes? All these big loops that you found yourself on unexpectedly, repetitions and echoes of past events in new forms. Whichever direction her mum’s future might take, no one could deny that Alison had blossomed remarkably in recent months. ‘This is my third age, according to my pal Mo,’ she’d said down the phone to Robyn the other night. ‘Sixty-five is the new twenty-five, she reckons. And heavens, it’s fun!’

‘So yeah, fingers crossed,’ John finished now, and Robyn jerked back to attention because he was looking at her as if waiting for an answer.