‘The mortgage paperwork. And his bank statements and pension stuff. I think he’s going to ask for a divorce. He’s an arsehole. What can I say? Anyway –’ she waves a dismissive hand through the air – ‘I’m not going to let him screw up tonight too. We have wine to drink and a film to watch and I’m not going to give him a second thought. How are you anyway?’

I take a sip of my wine. ‘Let’s just say I’m looking forward to the film.’

‘Great.’ She flashes a smile at me. ‘I knew there was a reason I liked you.’

For thirty minutes we do nothing apart from sip wine and watch the screen as a young girl falls over a lot and a pasty-looking bloke and his equally pasty family act aloof and mysterious at every opportunity. When we’ve finished the first bottle Liz pauses the DVD so I can go to the kitchen to retrieve the other one from the fridge.

‘He’s gurt lush,’ she says as I refill her glass.

‘Who?’

‘Robert Pattinson.’ She gestures towards the screen where the freeze-frame has captured the actor looking wistful and conflicted.

‘He’s about twelve!’

‘Actually, he was twenty-two when he filmed this.’

‘But he’s at school in the film, so he’s supposed to be what, sixteen?’

‘Seriously though, Claire.’ She pauses the film, then digs in her handbag for her phone. She presses a few buttons and tilts the screen towards me. ‘Look at this.’

‘Is that Tinder? You installed it then!’

‘Yep. And I have a point to prove. Now here –’ she swipes at the screen – ‘are some of the local men who are about the same age as me. Shout out if you see one you think is fit.’

She swipes through photo after photo, all of them of middle-aged men. Some are balding, some have a good head of hair, some are fat, some thin, some badly dressed, some in suits, some wearing very little at all. Apart from the half-naked man flexing a bicep in the bathroom mirror and scowling into the camera, I’m surprised at how normal they all look. They’re the sort of men you’d see down the pub, in the supermarket or at work.

‘Still waiting for you to shout when you see a fit one,’ Liz says.

She continues to flick through an encyclopedia of men.

‘That one!’ I say.

‘Okay.’ She peers at the man I’ve selected. He’s sitting on a picnic blanket, a glass of beer in his hand and his head thrown back in laughter. His hair is peppered with grey above his ears but long and thick on top. He’s got a strong jaw, a Roman nose and good skin. More than anything else, he looks as though he’d be a laugh.