Anita realised that she’d been barking at Paula, aggressively stabbing her head at her friend as if she were the enemy. And Paula looked so profoundly tired that Anita felt terrible for adding to the pain of the day.

‘Sorry, Paula,’ Anita muttered and hoisted herself unsteadily to a standing position. ‘I’m pissed and I’m—look, I should go home. I’ll call an Uber.’

In the back of the Uber, Anita made brief eye contact with the driver in the rear-view mirror.

‘Sorry if I’m not chatty,’ she said. ‘Had a friend’s funeral today.’

The guy made a sympathetic noise and left her alone. Maybe it was a cheap move, playing the dead friend card to be excused from the obligation to chat. But there was a strong risk she would dissolve into a weeping jag or a shouty rant, so really she was doing the driver a favour by shutting up entirely.

She felt queasy with booze and the familiar niggle of regret in her belly. Anita often came away from encounters with Paula feeling like a fool, replaying certain things she’d said, ashamed that she’d spilled her guts so messily—blurting out every wild thought, every gust of emotion—while Paula was always so controlled and mature and patient with her. Even now, in the shadow of this catastrophe, the old insecurities still buzzed between them.

Anita was disgusted with herself for indulging in this sulky self-absorbed shit. And the thing, the overriding thing, was that they’d always backed each other, relied on each other, whatever annoyances simmered and spiked.

Anita pulled out her phone to type a text, poking clumsily at the screen because she was drunk and because the car was bumping through the suburban streets. She eventually managed to hit send.

Dear P, Sorry for hectoring you. A xx

She saw the three little dots moving to indicate Paula was typing a response straight back. Which was a relief.

You didn’t. I get it. I’m angry too. P xx

And then, thirty seconds later, there was another text from Paula: Maybe you’re right and we should kill all the fuckhead men.

Let’s do it. Goodnight, my lovely. A xx

Later, Anita came to wonder if the things she’d said that night had set Paula’s mind spinning along a certain path. Once an idea had been said aloud, even in a flippant way, it could establish its own blood supply in a person’s imagination.

FOUR