‘So,’ I say, my embarrassment starting to morph into impatience as I reach the top floor, ‘she somehow managed to be both concerned about my welfare and frightened of me, and then she came back to your flat and showed you the photo? And I suppose the two of you had a good laugh about it?’

‘Of course not,’ he says, sounding exasperated now. ‘We didn’t have a good laugh, and she didn’t come back to show it to me. Quite the opposite, in fact. She sent it to me with a curt message saying, “I think this is your wife?”’

I frown and stand there for a moment, at the door to the canteen. ‘And that was that?’

‘Yep, that’s the last communication we’ve had,’ he says dryly. ‘I might as well tell you, we’ve broken up.’

Afternoon, in the aftermath of Andy’s news

I’ve fantasised about this so many times. I’ve pictured myself laughing in his face, then ‘turning on my heel’, as women do in the movies, leaving him standing there, forlorn and loveless, cursing himself for being such a fool. I have even imagined him turning up late at night, banging on my door and dropping to his knees as he begs forgiveness, and trying to lick my shoes – or more likely my slippers if it’s at some ungodly hour. But the funny thing is that sometimes, when you’ve yearned for something and it finally happens, the last thing you feel like doing is punching the air and revelling in smugness and delight.

The truth is, I am neither delighted nor smug right now. I just go for lunch as normal, sitting with Jean and Belinda by the window, proud of myself for not reacting to his news, other than uttering, ‘Oh, really.’ I have no idea why they broke up, and I certainly wasn’t going to let him think I cared by quizzing him about it.

My afternoon is spent mainly on setting up Rose’s next trip. Now and again, when Andy pops into my mind, I reflect on how unremarkable this news is to me, considering it’s his affair with her that ended our marriage. Perhaps I’ve moved on more than I’d realised? It’s a cheering thought, and one that carries me through the rest of the working day with a spring in my step.

I pick up Izzy from after-school club, along with Maeve and Esme, another friend from their class, both of whom we’d arranged to have over for tea. As I’m tending to a chicken stir-fry on the stove, Chrissie knocks at the door, clutching a colicky baby, with Ludo hovering beside her, looking morose.

‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, beckoning her in, as supper is still sizzling in the wok.