We parted by mutual agreement, and there was nobody else involved.

And he has a wife.

I feel queasy.

‘I’m not sure where your father is, but when he comes home, I’ll let him know you’re coming to the party,’ Mum carries on, totally oblivious to my current meltdown. ‘He’ll be pleased about that. He doesn’t see much of you.’

That snaps me out of my daze. ‘That’s not my fault, Mum! If he was there more—’ Most of my brain is still grappling with the Robbie-is-married scenario, but the remaining bit still makes me indignant when I’m blamed for not being there for Dad! For God’s sake!

‘Oh, I know it isn’t your fault, Rosie,’ Mum says in her ‘shh-ing’ tone. ‘But you know how busy he is, and the orchestra are so busy these days, and he has to practise and—’

I sigh. I can’t help it. ‘Please don’t make excuses for him, Mum.’ It comes out wooden. I feel awful, it’s Mum who has to put up with him never being there. Not me.

Our family life has always been on his terms. Brilliant when he’s decided to be there, crap when he’s decided to go and ‘practise’ out of hours with the latest violin player, or some groupie who’s been swept off her feet by his easy charm and glamorous lifestyle. Ignoring the fact he has a family. Grrr.

‘I can’t believe Robbie has got married – are you sure, Mum?’ It can’t actually be true. I must have misheard. I’ve got myself in a tizz about nothing.

‘Positive! I saw his mother in the Co-op, she showed me the photos on her phone. All hippy yurts and fields and flowers, and sheep.’

His mum used to chat to me in the Co-op, but now she pretends she doesn’t know who I am. ‘Of course. Mustn’t forget the sheep!’ I laugh weakly. Maybe the thing to do here is concentrate on the sheep. Sheep are nice, sheep are daft, sheep don’t walk out of a long-term relationship and declare to love, honour and obey a woman they’ve known for barely two minutes.

Would he have stayed if I’d had sheep? Or a yurt?

Oh gawd, I’m going bonkers. What have sheep got to do with anything? I didn’t want him to stay. We’d reached our sell-by date. But I didn’t want him to find somebody else that quickly! Somebody he loved enough to marry. Which means she is the right one for him, and I never have been. And he knew it. Long before he told me.

‘I’m glad you’re not still with him, darling. I would never have seen you if you’d gone to Wales sheep farming.’

‘I’m glad too, Mum.’

‘She’s pregnant I bet. She had a smockie dress, billowing it was! And lots of flowers, you know, distractions! I bet she was hiding a bump.’

‘Not necessarily.’ It comes out a bit grumpily. I’m trying to work out how pregnant she’d have to be to be showing. ‘She might just like that kind of dress.’ How big is this bump? How long has she been bloody pregnant? He’s not only found himself, and a wife, he’s found fatherhood. But in which order did all this discovery happen?