‘Millie, trust me when I say this is coming from a place of love,’ he says. ‘But you’ve never had a female friend before. This isn’t the way it works. Nothing about it rings true. It’s all too much: inviting you into her inner circle so quickly, taking you to her fancy club, copying your clothes, even your hair. She’s mirroring you. It’s what people do when they’re trying to connect with you and get inside your head.’

I hadn’t noticed the hair, though now Tom mentions it, she has adopted the same neat chignon I favour. As do a million other women.

I don’t need my husband to tell me how inexperienced I am at friendship. And he’s right: I did – I do – bask in the warmth of Stacey’s attention. But it has nothing to do with flattery. It’s about redemption and forgiveness. Tom should know that.

The front door suddenly slams. Moments later, Meddie appears in the kitchen and heads straight over to the fridge without even stopping to take off her backpack. ‘There’s never anything to eat in this house,’ she complains, staring at the packed shelves. ‘It’s all lettuce and kale and green shit.’

‘Dinner will be in less than twenty minutes,’ Tom says, ignoring the green shit.

Meddie grabs a Babybel from its netting. ‘I’m not going to be in for dinner,’ she says, peeling off the red wax coating. ‘I’m meeting Noah at Nando’s.’

‘Who’s Noah?’ Tom asks.

She’s already heading back down the hall. ‘My boyfriend,’ she calls thickly through a mouthful of Edam. ‘Mum says it’s OK as long as I’m back by nine.’

‘She has a boyfriend?’ Tom demands, as the front door slams again.

I shrug. ‘He’s a friend. He’s a boy.’

‘She has a boyfriend! She’s thirteen!’

‘Nearly fourteen,’ I correct.

I check on the grilled chicken, and then open a bag of collard greens and start to make an apple-cider and yoghurt dressing for the salad. My chest is tight with anger. Clearly Tom and I are on opposite sides of this divide between the Porters: his willingness to automatically believe the middle-aged, middle-class man makes me almost incandescent with fury. I know, I know, Felix is abusing his wife. His attacks are getting more blatant: sooner or later, if someone doesn’t stop him, he’s going to kill her. Just by giving him airtime and sympathy Tom is enabling him.

My husband hovers at my elbow, getting in my way.

‘What?’ I snap finally.

‘We need to talk about Peter,’ he says.

I look up sharply. I can’t remember the last time Tom voluntarily raised the subject of our son.

‘Well, Stacey liked him,’ I say, deliberately baiting him. ‘She’s offered to take him into work and let him sit in the gallery next time she’s at the studio.’