She is attractive in that cool, thin, almost transparently pale kind of way: lightly freckled with challenging green eyes and rod-straight fair hair that hangs, wig-like, at her chin. If she were a sales assistant in a clothes shop, you’d take one look at her and decide you’d be better blundering around, trying to find the right thing in your size, rather than asking her for help. And you’d be too scared to ask to try anything on. You’d decide you’re probably too fat anyway and leave without buying anything, muttering a meek ‘thank you’ as you left the shop.

So yes, she is thin. Of course she ruddy is. I imagine she’s tall, too; she has that lofty look about her, as if she ‘carries herself’ well, whereas I merely barge about. However, I can’t find any mention of her height anywhere, and when I ask Andy he just groans, ‘Please, Viv, can we stop this now?’ and leaves the room.

I do manage to find out her age, though. She looks way younger than me – early forties at most – but, horrifyingly, it transpires that she and I are the same age. Fifty-bloody-two with the skin of a peach! She looks natural, too – not obviously Botoxed or weirdly stretched as if she’s had her skin hoisted up behind her ears. I can’t decide whether she is ageing incredibly well or I am crumbling at a terrifying rate.

‘I just want us to be happy, like we were,’ Andy says, looking exhausted when I try to grill him on this. ‘What can I do to help us get over it?’

The trouble is, I don’t know.

Sunday, February 24

But my friend Penny does. ‘Make the most of it,’ she says. ‘All those household tasks you’ve wanted doing? Get him onto them right away.’

I had to escape the house today – I literally can’t bear being around Andy – and was grateful she was around. It’s a sharp, blue-skied afternoon, and I’m helping Jules out by looking after Maeve for the day. As the girls scale the climbing frame, Penny details how I should put my husband to work as a handyman; a ‘strike while the iron’s hot’ sort of approach.

‘But he’s done everything already,’ I explain. ‘I found him the other day, prowling around actually looking for jobs that needed doing. There’s not one lightbulb that needs changing. He even pumped my bike tyres without being asked. He washed the skirting boards. There’s literally nothing left to do.’

‘How about the garden? Didn’t you say you want to start growing veg?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then get him started,’ she insists.

‘It’s too early, Pen,’ I say.

She looks quizzical. ‘You mean you’re not ready to talk?’

‘No, it’s too early to plant veg.’

‘Yes, but he could start digging things over, preparing the ground …’