Jake had thick, strong-­looking forearms, always my favourite part of a man’s body, although the hair on his arms was sparse and fair. My preference, not rationally, but from some other, storybook place, was for the hair to be thick and dark, hatched as a pencil sketch, like the deepest parts of a forest. I couldn’t resist this sight, whenever I saw it, in a cafe or a playground or a train. Dark hair emerging from a shirtsleeve, moving towards a watch strap. It made me understand men who cut out parts of women in their minds, separating them, breasts, lips, legs, all floating free.

One of the men Jake was talking to – Antonio, father of three – had this hair, visible at the end of his shirtsleeves, a thick softness covering his wrists. I offered them a mince pie, holding the plate forward until they had all taken one, still in their squat foil trays, too hot to be eaten. Antonio lifted his pie to his mouth, squinted, moved it away again, his eyes meeting mine. We knew each other a little better than most of the people here; there’d been a dinner party, years ago, where Antonio got drunk and started weeping, unable to stop. It was a strange, bright, summer night, dream-­like, my hand on his arm, his cheeks wet with tears.

Maybe this was why I saw it, indisputably, as he looked at me. He knew. He was looking to see how I was coping. He was wondering, perhaps, how I was standing up in our living room, wearing a nice dark red dress. I was wearing heels: I had brushed my hair. I’d put on foundation, mascara, lipstick. At a party, these things, on a woman, are usually conspicuous only by their absence. Frankie, from down the road, for example, came wearing jeans and a T-­shirt she’d spent the day gardening in, filled one corner of the kitchen with a distinct smell of sweat.

But Antonio could see that I had made this effort, that I was standing upright, holding a plate of mince pies. He was wondering how I was doing it. I excused myself, went towards the downstairs toilet. In there, I would be able to fan myself with my hands. If there were tears, they could be flushed out and disguised with cold water. I could press my hands to my throat, hold it in. By the door to the bathroom, I saw a group of women, mothers from the school, already waiting.

Much older, apparently. Like in her fifties! I know . . . if John ever . . .

I tried to turn on my heel – this was the expression, wasn’t it, for a fast reversal, a quick getaway? But my heels were six inches high. There was nothing to do but wait, hold onto the wall, hope they didn’t see me.

Why did they still have the party? I don’t even know . . .