It had been strange seeing Judith’s name along with hers in the list of recipients.

It still made her baulk.

Not because she hadn’t seen Judith in the past twelve years. In fact, since Funeral-gate they’d both attended the same Blythe family occasion at least once a year, Catrin persisting in her commitment to be diplomatic and treat them both the same. At these events Lana and Judith were always polite and cordial to one another, in the most minimal of exchanges – How are you? I’m fine – and you? We’re fine. And then they’d move on, avoiding each other for the rest of the evening. It was just about civilized and just about bearable. Nonetheless, seeing Judith was never something Lana could look forward to. Because it always felt so fake. At least Gareth completely ignored her on these occasions, which was somehow more honest.

There’d been a couple of times during the past twelve years when Lana had swallowed her pride and attempted to ‘reach out’ (how she hated that expression) to Judith. Though she always ended up regretting it. In 2012 she’d got married for the third time, to Paul, a meat-pie magnate with a taste for the high life and an insistence on a pre-nup. The marriage had only lasted eighteen months, but they’d gone all out on a wedding in the south of France and Catrin had suggested this might be a great opportunity to build bridges with Judith again. ‘Everyone loves a wedding, Larn,’ she’d insisted. ‘Send her an invite and let’s get the ball rolling.’

Lana took her friend’s advice and put Judith and Gareth Metcalf on the guest list. But almost by return of post she received Judith’s reply.

So sorry but we won’t be able to make it. Gareth’s off to the Grand Prix that weekend with friends, and I’ve got a big audit in work so my Saturdays are no longer my own. Anyway, hope you have a lovely day.

Lana hadn’t taken the rejection well and she’d offloaded on to Cat. ‘This is your fault. Why did you make me invite her? I feel like a right plonker now.’

‘Don’t blame me. I can’t help it if she’s busy!’

‘Busy my arse,’ said Lana. ‘That’s the last time I make an effort with that woman.’

Although she’d been angry with Catrin, the truth was that inside she was really hurt. Because Lana had always been the one who’d made the effort to repair the rift. Never Judith. Always Lana doing the chasing. Always Lana doing the apologizing. Well, fuck you, Judith Harris and the horse you rode in on. No more. It did make her smile, thinking of Judith dressed as a cowboy riding a horse, but the smile soon faded, replaced by the hurt.

Lana reached into her bedside cabinet and found some paracetamol lurking at the back. Downing them with the remainder of her now tepid tea, she tentatively looked at her phone and scrolled through the Sent messages. Phew. None written.