They’d all grown up together in Hillhead, where her auntie Sal was still living, although Anya’s parents had moved out to Balfron now, and the three of them – Anya, Claire and Georgie – had all attended the same school near Kelvinbridge; Claire and Georgie in the same year. Even as a teenager, Claire had been – as far as Anya was concerned – very cold and severe, utterly lacking in charisma and unburdened by anything approaching a sense of humour. Auntie Sal – who was utterly unlike her daughter – had worked as a midwife up at the Queen Mums in those days, before it closed, and so Claire would often end up at theirs after school, though she’d refuse to watch telly with the girls. Instead, she’d do homework at the kitchen table, marking her worksheets in that spidery, precise handwriting. Plus, she always left her potato smileys, though Anya’s dad would hoover them up when he walked in the door at 6.30 p.m. Anya was certain Claire had never farted in her whole life.

It was only on account of her appearance – long, slender, cheekbones – that she’d had any friends at school. Well, that’s what Anya had always sworn. Paddy agreed (he and Claire had been mortal enemies at school, where Paddy, like Anya, had been two years above her). After getting straight As in all of her exams, she’d gone up to Edinburgh to study law – ‘Good luck, Edinburgh,’ Paddy had quipped when Anya told him – and then returned to Glasgow, became a trainee solicitor and now was on her way to partner (of course).

Still, she and Georgie had always rubbed along quite well together; Georgie liked everyone, Anya thought darkly. It was such a betrayal. The pair of them had played hockey in the First XI together, had loosely kept in touch whilst at university, and now occasionally had lunch in town. In Georgie’s company, Claire had even been known to smile. Georgie was to be a bridesmaid at Claire’s wedding at Boclair House next year. Anya was not, though she had been invited to do a reading, which she considered to be an affront.

With a rumble of disquiet, Anya realized that she had made it to Claire’s front door. Sighing, she pressed the doorbell and heard a chime from deep within the terraced house. Eventually, her cousin opened the door.

‘Anya,’ she sniffed.

‘Hi Claire.’ Her voice had a note of forced jollity.

‘Come in,’ Claire said unenthusiastically.

Her house had a strange smell, like someone had burned a bath bomb, or left a bunch of lilies festering on a radiator. Anya supposed that, in the fullness of time, she’d have to get used to it.

‘How have you been?’ Anya tried, brushing her shoes vigorously on the hairy welcome mat.

‘Good, ta.’ Claire closed the door behind her and glanced Anya up and down. ‘Can I take your coat?’