‘That’s a funny way to put it,’ she said primly. I felt flat. I regretted saying anything at all; I was wrong to expect her understanding. I’d wanted her to be happy for me, to share my excitement. She knew how hard I’d been finding it coping with everything. She knew that I’d gone on the antidepressants. The truth was that I had expected her to be there for me. And she wasn’t. I didn’t seem to register with her the way I used to. There had been a time when she found me captivating. She had revelled in me – I used to see it in her eyes. Perhaps there is a stage in an intense female friendship when a sisterly irritation takes hold: once we have shared all our secrets, told all our stories, predicted each other’s responses, adopted the ones we like and discarded the others; when we become more interested in impressing strangers than each other; when we side with other people in discussions, even dropping an acerbic word or a scoffing laugh; when the solidarity has gone and a pointed neglect takes its place. In short, had she fallen out of love with me?

After we’d fed the kids and I was leaving, she gave me a big hug and said, ‘You’re an incredible person, Connie. You’re brave. You’re unconventional.’ (Appalling really how quickly my ego could be pumped up again, but I loved her saying this. I have a deep and visceral need to be special. We all have a driving need: Karl’s is to be liked (obviously). Ness’s is to be safe. And yours, Dr. R, oh, it’s easy-peasy; you need to be needed – don’t you?)