Maybe.

I was married to her.

I had declared my undying love …

‘Should we just sack this all off and have a beer? We could get wasted and watch one of those pathetic girly films and cry for a few hours instead,’ I find myself saying, my voice coming out as a squeak. ‘I’ll even let you watch a Hugh Grant one if you like. I’m feeling generous.’

‘Nice try, champ,’ Zaza says, a smile slowly stretching across her face as she pulls me in for a quick hug before squeezing through the doorway – as though I might change my mind and slam it shut, denying them access.

‘You OK?’ Vicky asks, before shaking her head. ‘Stupid question. Sorry. It’s a habit. As if you’re fucking OK. This is fucking shit.’

‘You can tell you’re not with your kids,’ I comment. ‘Fuck this, fuck that. Or has Chloe started using the f-bomb as an adjective?’

‘Shh you,’ Vicky blushes, elbowing me in the ribs as I put an arm around her and bring her inside.

‘Wine?’

‘Oh God no. Tea, please,’ she moans, walking ahead of me.

‘Such good manners,’ I laugh. ‘Za?’

‘Yes to tea.’

We shuffle through to the kitchen. As I pop on the kettle Zaza gathers mugs out of the cupboard and Vicky takes a bottle of milk from her bag, clearly having thought ahead to me and my empty fridge.

‘What have you been up to, then?’ she asks, reaching for the teabags and tossing one into each mug with a sigh. I’d have preferred a beer but it seems the decision’s been taken from me.

‘Just mourning my dead wife. What can I say …? Let me guess, though,’ I tease. ‘You’re never drinking again?’

‘He’s got you there,’ Zaza laughs, jumping up onto the kitchen side and making herself comfortable – funny how we’ve always done this, no matter whose house we’re at. Kitchen sides are always an inviting place for butts.

‘Good party?’ I ask.

‘Beautiful,’ Vicky says with a nod before releasing a grunt. ‘I drank too much.’

‘Really?’ I gasp.

‘She had that look in her eye,’ Zaza shares, looking over at Vicky with admiration.

‘I know the one.’

‘Shut up you,’ she laughs. ‘It has been horrific though. Barnaby was practising his sodding recorder first thing. How the recorder hasn’t been banned yet I don’t know. If I was feeling more alive I’d have gone into his room and flung it out the window,’ she says, her arms flinging forward in a throwing motion. ‘Seriously, though. Kids and hangovers – I don’t recommend it.’

‘Noted,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.