Back in the day, Robyn had worked at the university, like John, as a lecturer in the Biochemistry Faculty, but these days she was mostly a dogsbody. (‘Robyn? She used to be this, like, real high-flier’ she had once heard John’s tactless Aunty Pen telling some new boyfriend or other, unaware that she could hear, ‘but these days she . . . well, I don’t know what she does with herself, to be honest. Pushes the Hoover round? Makes cakes?’) A dogsbody who did all the housework and went out three days a week to be a part-time lab technician at a secondary school across town: that was her. Sure, it wasn’t the most taxing job for someone of her scientific background, but the hours fitted in with her own children’s school day, and it got her out of the house – further than the supermarket at least. Except that every now and then there’d be some supply teacher in, like today, who’d talk down to her patronizingly, as if Robyn was completely thick and didn’t know her beakers from her Bunsen burners. Or there had been the day last week when two of the naughtier boys in one class had surreptitiously ‘liberated’ the classroom stick insects from their glass box, and it had been Robyn’s job to recapture them all afterwards. She had crawled around on the floor trying to catch the little buggers, thinking ruefully of her Masters degree and the respect she’d once been afforded by her peers.

Sometimes she just missed being ‘somebody’, that was all.

Dashing through the primary-school gates now, she felt frazzled as she joined the sea of waiting parents gathered in the playground, where the sweet, piping voices of infants singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ came wafting through a nearby window. Phew, made it, she thought, ferreting in a pocket for a tissue, in the hope that she could dab her sweaty brow before anyone noticed how shiny she was. It was so muggy, and she’d been in the middle lab at school where the windows didn’t open properly; the heat had sent the classes stir-crazy all day.

Just as she was mid-dab – embarrassing! – she realized that one of the mums nearby was addressing her and turned apologetically, crumpling the tissue within a fist, to see that Beth Broadwood, PTA superstar and mother of four clever, sporty daughters, was gazing expectantly at her, presumably waiting for her reply. ‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ Robyn confessed. ‘What was that?’

Beth was giving her a strange sort of smile, one Robyn couldn’t quite interpret. ‘I said, I was sorry to hear the news. I hope you’re all okay.’