‘You didn’t have to. I’m your friend; I could tell.’

‘Nonsense! For goodness’ sake, I thought you came here to support me, not to make ridiculous unfounded claims. We were perfectly happy. I was perfectly happy. Peter never had reason to doubt me. And I can tell you, if you’re trying to infer he was suicidal… that he deliberately jumped… you couldn’t be more wrong.’

‘Right, okay, I’m sorry.’ Portia reached out to take her hand. ‘You rushed into this marriage; I’d always wondered if you repented at leisure.’

Allison wrenched her hand away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think you do either. There was no rushing, no repenting. You look at something that’s clearly black and white and see shades of grey, Portia. It’s all those psychology courses you do, they addle your head.’ Allison reached for the wine bottle, resting her hand on it for a moment before getting to her feet. ‘Maybe getting drunk isn’t the best idea. D’you want a cuppa?’

She didn’t wait for a reply. When her stiletto heels click clicked on the tiles of the hallway, she stopped to kick them off and sent them skittering across the floor. Everything seemed disconnected. It was some other woman who filled the kettle and switched it on. A stranger who opened the cupboard and took down two mugs.

Somewhere, as if at a distance, she heard Portia’s heavy, slow steps approaching. Allison was sorry now she’d asked her to come. She was consumed with unexpected, bitter grief, and grieving was a lonely personal journey; it would have been better to have travelled alone.

The kettle seemed to take forever to boil, or had everything in her life ground to a halt? Her gaze drifted from it to the sash window behind. Dark outside, the window was a mirror, her reflection oddly deformed by the crossbar, the black dress she wore vanishing into the darkness as if part of her was invisible.

Portia’s face appeared alongside, and even in the glass Allison could see frown lines concertinaing her brow.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to infer Peter…’ Even over the sound of the kettle finally coming to the boil, Portia’s gulp was loud. ‘You know… committed suicide.’

Allison turned from the strange alternative reality in the window to the pathetic sight of her friend. That was exactly what she’d been inferring. So yes, she should be sorry, the stupid, stupid, stupid cow. If she’d let the words out, all the angry, bitter, twisted words she wanted to spew, her friend would have run from the house in horror. When she saw colour smear Portia’s cheeks, she realised she didn’t need to say a word.