I am well jel, tapped Claudia, from the back of a taxi. When I thought of her, zipping along to some glam restaurant, where they’d take her nice, impractical coat and offer her a drink, I was so jel I could feel the bile rise up in my throat. But if you admit to friends how unhappy you are, you have to admit it to yourself as well.

Nowadays, things have changed. When Nick goes to work each morning and my wifely smile rusts over, I let myself think of all the things I put out of my mind when he’s home. I take the jumper from under the bed. I hadn’t washed it – thank God, I hadn’t washed it. I look at myself in the mirror, my lying naked body – how could you be so stupid – and pull the jumper over my head, and for a second, so sweet and painful I nearly burst, I’m surrounded by you again. Most days I pray, obscurely, not sure who or what to, to change the past, to go back to how things were. Please, let me turn back time. Give me another chance.

That morning, the van arriving shocked me out of it, made me take an honest look at myself, how pathetic I was, what a mess. I wiped the snot and tears from my face and realised I was standing there in your old jumper, unshowered. Shame washed over me, a familiar feeling by now. What would Nick say if he could see me? What would you say, for that matter? I decided I’d better get cleaned up and meet my new neighbour.

That was the first time I saw her. Even though there was no threat I felt jittery with terror, shaking with it. Sometimes, since you’d gone, I was so afraid I could feel my heart beating inside me, like the wings of some terrible bird.

Elle

Elle

Years ago, when Elle was still a teenager, her mother had told her it was important to get ready before your husband came in the door. Freshen up, brush your hair, change your clothes. Tidy away any cooking mess or laundry sitting out. Greet him with a smile on your face, ask about his day.

Elle had laughed at it, privately sure that she would never even have a husband. She’d be too busy soaking up the applause after a sold-out concert, roses raining down on her as she bowed on stage. She’d wear a red silk dress and brush her long hair so it flowed over her shoulder like a river. She would never get married, or if she did, it would be to some adoring rich man, who would worship her and never expect her to roughen her magical hands with housework.