I nearly said, ‘… and then I found my next victim.’ Whoops.

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.