Five minutes later they were sitting across the kitchen table from each other. She took in the familiar, endearing gawkiness of him, the pale skin that looked like it barely saw sunlight – which wasn’t far from the truth: Mac was a freelance photographer and spent his nights taking pictures of gigs and music concerts for a living, which meant he often slept during daylight hours. Luke’s funny, loyal friend who could usually make her helpless with laughter within seconds, who until yesterday she had thought was one of her closest friends, too. ‘Why did he do it?’ she asked. ‘We’ve only just moved in together, he told me he loved me! What the fuck was he playing at?’

Mac shrugged helplessly. ‘Because he’s a bloody idiot.’

‘You should have told me, Mac. I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am your friend. Think about the position I was in. I fucking hated it. But it needed to come from him, not me. I told him to tell you, I told him over and over, you’ve got to believe that!’

She rubbed her eyes, considering this. ‘How did it start between them?’ she asked.

‘Sadie was in the pub one night after work and Luke got talking to her. Her dad had died recently I think and she was drunk and upset, so he comforted her, told her he was always around for a chat. You know what Luke’s like, always wants to be there for people. Anyway, he said after that she used to seek him out whenever she could, they’d meet at lunch now and then, and she’d turn up at the pub after work and make a beeline for him. A few of them ended up at her flat one night and, well, I guess one thing led to another. He told me she wouldn’t leave him alone after that, saying she’d fallen for him, he was the only thing keeping her going. He got in too deep, didn’t know how to get himself out of it …’

‘I expect it helped that she looks like a fucking supermodel,’ Clara muttered, once again mentally comparing her own looks to Sadie’s and finding herself humiliatingly lacking. She was the sort of woman others referred to as ‘cute’. Five foot five with a short, Bettie Page bob, a slightly snubbed nose and freckles, she’d long made peace with the fact that she wasn’t the stuff of male fantasy – until now, that was, when suddenly every long-buried adolescent insecurity seemed to be rushing back at her with the speed of an express train.

He sighed. ‘Look, I’m not trying to excuse him, but he made a mistake, a massive one, he totally ballsed up and he knows it … he’s truly sorry, I know he is.’

‘Jesus,’ she said, putting her head in her hands. ‘I thought he was so … nice.’