Esther sank deeper into her chair as an advert for gym membership began, marvelling that prising open her locked box of a daughter and seeing off six-foot-tall stalkerish admirers could feel less of a challenge than spending time with her closest friend. The film, a story about a broken engagement that got fixed, turned out to be good though, and spending almost two hours laughing side by side with Viv, between shedding a few tears – always at the same moments – still felt like something to be treasured.

‘I feel like I’ve become a loose thread,’ she ventured, wanting to hang onto the closeness as they emerged back into the foyer. ‘It’s like, now I am on my own I don’t quite fit anywhere any more. No one knows what to do with me. Family. Suitors. Exes. Friends…’ Viv was already pulling her coat back on. ‘I mean,’ Esther pressed on, ‘that is clearly how it feels for you. And Shona, come to that,’ she added quickly, when Viv didn’t take the bait; ‘blowing me off now more times than I can count. Not to mention the Amersham crew. Do you know, Dad sent me an email the other day – wildly early as usual, about his annual, pre-Christmas “surprise party” for Mum’s birthday – and honestly, apart from the “love Dad” it could have been written to one of his golfing pals.’

Viv chuckled and Esther’s hopes soared.

‘You are the opposite of a loose thread, Esther,’ she declared, briskly doing up the big white buttons on her coat. ‘Shona is wrapped round Carole’s finger, and always has been. Your father is always weirdly formal, and that is part of his charm. And for the record…’ she paused, pulling a white pompom hat out of her coat pocket ‘…seeing off creepy dates and having one-night stands with young nephews of neighbours clearly suits you – I mean, you look amazing, Esther. Unless it is some powerful vitamins or a new foundation cream…’ She faltered.

It was as if she was trying to be her old self and for a moment it was almost worse than anything. They had reached the exit and both put their arms out to push the door at the same time. It granted the first close-up eye-contact of the evening.

‘What’s up, Vivvie? You look so sad. Or still furious. Please tell me which. And if it is because I have leaned on you too much, then I am sorry. I just don’t know how to be with you any more, or what I have done wrong, apart from saying those vicious, untrue things in your lovely holiday house when I was drunk and stressed out of my mind. I miss you, Viv. I miss us. I need you, Vivvie—’

‘No, you don’t, and just shut the fuck up for one blessed moment, can’t you?’