His name was Andy Meadows.

Andy and Prisha were the veterans of several marriages—five between them, in fact. They themselves hadn’t tied the knot—we just never got round to it—but had enjoyed twenty happy years together, never a cross word, but then who reports a cross word on Facebook? They ran their own business selling miniature Schnauzers and ethically sourced garden furniture. Photos showed adorable puppies heaped on teak benches. They’d had lotsa laffs together. In fact their life had seemed to be one long party, in the company of their extended family and multitudinous grandchildren. In this respect they reminded me of Vronny and Trevor, but that was hardly surprising. According to Facebook, Instagram and the rest, life was indeed one long party. And one long holiday. Florida. Bermuda. The Swiss Alps. God knew when Andy and Prisha got any work done. And who looked after their puppies?

The old envy rose up in me. No wonder teenagers, addicted to social media, had mental problems. Would my life with Greg have looked as rapturous? Compared to these, our family photographs seemed posed and false, but only because I knew the circumstances in which they were taken. Snapshots of a picnic with the children, for instance, at Burnham Beeches. We all looked happy, Instagram-happy. We were having lotsa laffs. In truth, Greg and I were having one of our muttered, low-level rows. It was a well-worn theme. He’d been complaining about the potholes in the local lanes, how they could wreck the car tyres, and I’d said why didn’t he ever notice anything nice? Like the bluebells? He’d chanted, ‘Hello trees, hello sky.’ This Fotherington-Tomas squelch had sent me into a sulk. He’d said he was joking. I’d said his negativity was like a toxic cloud, poisoning everything.

Then we’d had our picnic. Greg had made a Spanish tortilla, which Lucy refused to eat because it had olives in it. He’d been snippy. She’d cried. I’d come to her defence. Max, who’d been reading his Beano throughout, knocked over his mug of Ribena and it splashed on Greg’s trousers. Greg was furious. I said it was just a little splash and would come out in the wash. Greg said they were ruined. Max burst into tears. Greg said he shouldn’t have been reading the Beano, he’d been reading the bloody Beano for the last bloody hour, he hadn’t climbed a single tree or joined in anything, what was the point of coming all this way if he was only going to read his blithering comic? Come on, we’re going home. No, we can’t, I said, the tyres are wrecked—a feeble joke that fell flat, as Greg accused me of thinking he was boring, but who’d have to take the bloody car to the bloody garage? And Max got up and sat with his back to us and went on reading his Beano even though I knew he’d finished it.

And beneath it all thrummed Greg’s disappointment with his son, for we were both aware that there was something not quite right with Max, but when I’d tried to bring this up Greg had got angry and said he didn’t know what I was talking about, the boy was just a bit eccentric.