In the kitchen, she had peeled off her wet outer clothes and cobbled together a kitty litter with newspaper and an old baking tray. Trembling from something more than being cold, she had sought calm via alternating sips of tea and wine, messaging Sue about what had happened – asking her to pass on the news about the cat to Marcus – and then quickly put the phone down to prevent herself calling Viv. To be in the thick of aftershock – when nothing bad had happened – was daft anyway. She didn’t need Viv. And Viv, with the new acerbity that had been slightly in evidence even before their horrible argument, certainly didn’t need her. And yet how nonsensical after all their years of friendship, Ether had chided herself, seizing the mobile and calling anyway, only to find herself going straight to voicemail.

‘Hey, Vivvie, I hope you are okay…’ Esther had hesitated, not really wanting to leave some glib summary of the latest myriad shenanigans in her life, but then doing exactly that. Sunday evenings were prime family time, she’d reasoned, when she had got to the end without Viv interrupting, aware that finding justifications for Viv’s reluctance to communicate was becoming something of a habit. A longing for Dylan had surfaced unhelpfully into the bleakness that had followed, a visceral ache, simply to feel her son’s rangy teenager body in her arms. Thirteen days and it was Buenos Aires now. The Falklands, the tango, lots of beef – Esther’s knowledge of Argentina was pitiful, making it utterly beyond the wit of her imagination to picture Dylan there. He didn’t speak Spanish. How on earth was he managing? Or maybe he wasn’t managing at all. Maybe he, too, was sheltering in some dilapidated garden building, trembling and hungry, too scared to ask for help.

When she had crawled between her sheets a little later, her phone, beeping with a message from the charger by her bed, had felt like rescue. Viv, she thought, almost tumbling off the edge of the mattress in her eagerness to read her words.

Hi Esther, Chris here. It was very nice to bump into you. I am now writing to ask if you would consider having dinner with me? I know I do not deserve a second chance, but I am hoping (fingers crossed!) you are kind enough to give me one. I was in a bad place when we met before. That is over. To meet, even just as friends, would make me a very happy – and grateful – man. I attach a link to a restaurant in Richmond. I am hoping next Tuesday evening might work? It will be on me. The least I can do. Best wishes, Chris.