‘Yeah, but …’ He winces, infuriatingly. ‘Seventies fashion, Viv. Think about it. The flares, the massive collars, the horrible synthetic fabrics, the ponchos …’ A maddening chuckle. So he’s quite the fashion guru now? ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, is it?’ he adds.

I blink at him, fury bubbling up in me now. ‘Well, I think it is.’

He shrugs. ‘Yeah, well, I guess you know best.’

‘I obviously don’t,’ I say hotly, ‘because it was turned down, wasn’t it?’

‘Okay, Viv,’ he says, giving me one of those here she goes, going off on one looks. ‘If you say so.’

If I say so! I think you’ll find it wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste …

We exchange rather stiff goodbyes, and off he goes. It takes an almighty effort to appear normal, and to seem as thrilled about the Brownie camping trip as Izzy is, as I turn back into the house.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Late afternoon, with Izzy gone

Maybe it’s the hormones again. Maybe I’ve swerved back down into ‘irrational alley’, as Shelley calls it – yet another symptom of being fifty-three with bugger all oestrogen remaining; a ‘trace element’, like limestone in rabbit food. Grab it now while stocks last!

Or maybe I am just pissed off.

How dare Andy imply that I was wasting my time with the proposal? Did he suggest that, or am I over-reacting? Perhaps I need to start recording my every conversation, so it can be analysed later, because now I have no idea. The fact that my anger is mixed up with gratitude (for Andy having accessed the attic), and possibly a little shame (for being such a grumpy, ungrateful arse; and for not buying Izzy a new sleeping bag) is only confusing things further. What I do know, however, is that swimming/jogging/cycling won’t be happening today, and nor will ‘culture’. I’d half-heartedly considered going to see an arty Italian film that Jules had been raving about, but fuck that. The only Italian I’ll be reading tonight is the label on a bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio. I have already stomped out to buy some, and I fully intend to neck it alone like the sad, dumped wife that I am. And now, at 5.38 p.m., far too early to start drinking, I am ceremoniously pouring my first glass.

It’s insufficiently chilled, and has a hint of bubble gum and a lingering note of having been manufactured at a vast plant in Warrington – but what the hell. I take a big swig. Spotting my laptop sitting on the worktop, I consider googling Estelle Lang, but no, that would be a step back and I’m past that stage now. I sit drumming my fingers on the table, waiting for the urge to go away.