That’s what he thinks.

Despite my inner indignation, I assure him that I’ve thought of everything: training school (if need be, but apparently Goldie—formerly Lady—is “a dream”), vet’s appointments, pet insurance and that I’m on hand to bear the bulk of the care. However, his harsh words sting, long after he’s apologized and admitted that maybe it’s a good thing after all. I try not to hold it against him; he is not yet in his right frame of mind. I am the one holding it all together. I am their rock.

Camilla is due home sometime today. I keep an eye out for a taxi. I intend to head over later and confront her with my discovery, hopefully while she’s still jet-lagged and feeling a little overwhelmed in her new surroundings.

However, Stuart throws me.

“A friend of mine is going to pop in later for a drink.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sounds fun.”

“I was wondering...” he says.

“Yes?”

“If you’d mind babysitting for a couple of hours so that we can nip to the pub?”

“Of course,” I say. “I’m sure Goldie will keep me busy.”

But I’m miffed, of course I am.

I go through the motions of lighting and blowing out candles, singing “Happy Birthday.” Our hearts are not in it, but the children are putting their all into it, and that’s what counts.

They smile, taking genuine pleasure in having made and decorated the cake themselves. It gives me hope that I’m doing something right.

When Stuart’s friend arrives, I say hello and hang around for a while making polite chitchat. James makes a huge fuss of Goldie.

“I’d love a dog,” he says. “But my wife isn’t keen.”

I’m secretly thrilled because it shows me in a good, tolerant and generous light.

“Can I get you both something to drink?” I say. “We’re still trying to get through the Christmas champagne.”

“No, thanks,” says Stuart.

He doesn’t waste any further time grabbing their coats, as if he doesn’t get out immediately, the opportunity will be lost. However, he bends down to stroke Goldie before he leaves, and I am so relieved that I nearly cry. Honestly. I thought I’d made a huge error.

I hear the front door close.

Apart from Goldie, I am alone, which feels heightened by the party leftovers I’ve been left to clear up.

The house already feels colder, which I know can only be my imagination. Rising frustration that I can’t go over to Camilla’s, that I’m trapped because I’m responsible for the children and Goldie, increases my restlessness. I pour myself a glass of champagne—why not—and wander around, memories keeping me company.

I helped Nina write thank-you cards for her wedding gifts one evening.

“I’ll feel bad if I don’t do it soon. People chose specific gifts for a reason. They were kind enough to come to our wedding. The guilt will get to me.”

We’d both laughed.

The guilt will get to you, was something our religious studies teacher used to say to us.