I look at Izzy across the table as she tucks in. She loves her days with her dad. I can tell she’s thinking about him and wondering what treats he has in store.

She glances up at me, mouth full. ‘What are you gonna do tomorrow?’

‘Oh, I have loads of things to catch up with,’ I say, meaning: I’ll be a whirl of productivity and not roam about the house, feeling abandoned and listless, thinking I really should clean the loo, but not doing it, and I must tackle that box of bath toys as I suspect there’s a nasty slime situation developing in there, but not doing that either.

‘Dad said he’s going to buy me new trainers,’ she says happily, jumping down from her chair.

Sunday, July 21

Izzy is out with Andy and I am alone. With no plans or obligations, the whole day spreads before me. I really must put it to good use.

I could clean the extractor hood or hoover under the beds. I could use the opportunity to take up running to try and shift this menopausal belly of mine – which is starting to look like someone’s strapped a cushion to my middle – or see if Jules is around, to make a plan for my life coaching sessions (she’s been asking me when I want to get started, and I’ve been putting her off). There are so many things a newly dumped middle-aged woman could do to enhance her life. Instead I find myself frittering away the day by staring at pictures of The Eminent Dr Lang on my laptop – cruelly, there are dozens online – and crying.

‘Oh, darling, you need a different hobby,’ Penny says, not unkindly, when she shows up to rescue me.

‘What, like crochet?’ I bleat.

‘Crochet is very therapeutic.’

‘My fingers are too fat,’ I growl. Penny hugs me, turning serious. She looks especially summery today in a shift dress of pink and yellow squares, like Battenberg, accessorised with a chunky necklace of multicoloured stones.

‘I just think you should stop staring at these pictures,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s only making you feel worse.’

‘I was only having a little look,’ I fib. ‘See, if I do an image search of her, there are tons …’ Penny leans forward, frowning at the screen as I show her Estelle Lang standing at a podium, make-up immaculate, radiating authority as she delivers a keynote speech at some fucking conference or other. Here she is again, in a more formal headshot this time, wearing a crisp white shirt and navy blazer with a red scarf (possibly silk?) tied nattily at her slender neck. It’s a classic, elegant look I have never managed to pull off.

‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’ Penny asks.

I shrug. ‘A kind of self-harm?’

She looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Like you’re determined to sink really low, into a cesspit of gloom?’