Scrolling through his photos, it was obvious what sort of world he and his wife lived in. A universe in which it rained money. The house, the five-bedroom one that she had mentioned to her friend; the car, a BMW – of course it would be – flashy and with a personalised number plate. Older pictures of him in rugby kit. And yes, that made sense: people like him always veered towards rugby rather than football. She made a bet with herself that he played squash weekly, and spat a laugh when she came across a post tagged in a squash court in Essex. He was a walking cliché, just like his wife.

But just for a moment she let the screen fade to black, imagined herself living a life with a man who was handsome and successful, rather than her actual life, taking money from William here and there, living in a terraced house with the old man, doing all the chores that came with looking after a pensioner.

She clicked the phone again, scrolled some more. There were holidays galore. Sunshine, beaches, cocktails. Him always in a crisp white shirt, rarely topless in any of the pictures, actually. She peered more closely, saw he had the potential to be a big man and wondered how hard he worked at keeping his body just this side of good. She grinned spitefully, knowing that when the kids the wife wanted so much came along, both of their frames would go from respectable to a state of let go. Briefly she wondered if that was what had happened to ‘Jules’, the wife’s fat friend.

Intrigued, she hovered over a photo of him with his arms around his wife, then clicked on her profile.

Paula was her name. Her page was public, as was Tommy’s. Which it would be; if you had this much money and property and fancy living, you’d want the whole world to know about it.

She wrinkled her nose and scrolled down the page. She blinked at Paula’s latest post: the raw steaks laid out on a wooden chopping board, fresh chives, mushrooms tumbled beside them.

Anna’s lip curled. She imagined taking a photo of William’s uncooked pie and frozen chips.

‘Gemma, what’re you doing up there?’ William’s voice drifted up the stairs.

For a split second, as always, the name threw her, before she realised he was talking to her.