Em had gasped for breath like a goldfish plucked from its bowl. ‘Right,’ she somehow managed to say weakly. Yeah, George, that was something. The ex-wife turning up on holiday, passing judgement on Em, her kids, her choice of accommodation, her step-parenting skills? George cheerfully telling her, ‘Don’t worry’ as if it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t going to be tying herself in knots over the encounter from now until then? That really was something. Could a holiday get any more stressful?

Em was not the sort of person who went hating on other women – she’d never done that competitive-girlfriend thing, not even with Michelle, Dom’s new wife. (Well, okay, she’d done it a bit with Michelle, she supposed, but then she had been severely provoked, in fairness. Many times.) But she really tried not to be judgey and sneering about other women for the sake of it; she’d always seen herself as better than that.

Turned out she wasn’t all that much better. Turned out, in fact, that as soon as she heard that Charlotte was going to be joining them, however briefly, on holiday, Em had dissolved into a puddle of self-loathing, instantly putting herself on a crash diet, booking in an emergency haircut and doing brutal sets of sit-ups whenever she remembered. What was she going to wear? How long would Charlotte want to spend with them? Should she organize food? A sit-down meal? Should she bring some recipe books or nice accessories from home? Perhaps some summer lanterns, which she could string up along the front of the cottage so that it looked like a holiday straight from the pages of a catalogue; or . . .

Standing now in her bedroom, supposedly packing for their imminent departure, Em found herself clutching the flattering fitted evening dress she’d just taken from the wardrobe as if it was another person. She had to remind herself to breathe before her head exploded. Come on, Em, get a grip. It was one measly encounter with one other human being that would probably last less than an hour. She could do it. Of course she could do it! Charlotte would probably be just as terrified as she was. Okay, perhaps not terrified, but at least slightly trepidatious. At the very least curious, anyway. Interested. Wouldn’t she?

She stared glumly at herself in the mirror, worried that her new haircut – meant to be breezy, choppy and young – actually looked a bit wonky and amateurish. Did her neck look strange now? Would Charlotte think she was odd-looking? ‘God, George has lowered his standards big-time since me,’ Charlotte might laugh unkindly to her new partner. ‘Such a weird haircut. And—’

Stop it, Em. Seriously. STOP. IT!