‘No, of course not, but did you ever get so mad that you did, I don’t know – something crazy and badly behaved? Something ridiculous?’ I look at her across the table, willing her to say yes.

She looks thoughtful at this. ‘Well,’ she starts hesitantly, ‘I once got terribly drunk and egged someone’s car—’

‘You egged someone’s car?’ I exclaim, delighted. ‘Whose was it?’

‘Just someone’s,’ she says airily, waving the horn about, cream bulging dangerously at its fat end. Sitting directly beneath it is an enormous coffee table book (Through the Lens: Icons of 70s Fashion). I’m not even sure why she lugged it over to our table. It’s not as if she’s looking at it.

‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Were you caught?’

‘Of course not,’ she says.

‘But did it feel satisfying?’

‘I suppose so, yes—’

‘Maybe that’s why Andy’s being evasive about where he’s living,’ I cut in. ‘And he won’t let Izzy visit, in case she tells me. Perhaps he thinks I’ll go round and inflict some kind of damage on his car, or the property …’

Penny slips off her turquoise cardigan and drapes it over the shoulders of her pink and yellow dress. I always feel terribly unadventurous in my basic tops and jeans whenever I am in her company. I loved fashion when I was younger and pored over magazines for inspiration. Rather than covering my bedroom walls with pop star posters, I stuck up pages carefully cut out from the women’s glossies. Later, as a student, I took to scouring charity shops and pulling together a bright, cheery, mish-mashy sort of look.

When I became a mum, I tried to adhere to a ‘lipstick at toddler group’ rule and did my best to maintain a reasonable standard of appearance; to take a pride in myself, I suppose. It’s only in the past few years that I’ve opted for the easiest, most sensible choices for work and knocking around at home. Practicality has been my priority, and as a result I have amassed a wardrobe of black, grey and navy basics, with barely a glimmer of brightness anywhere.

Penny wears happy clothes, Izzy observed, soon after we’d got to know her. I hope mine don’t scream: Depressed.

‘Are you sure that woman hasn’t moved in?’ Penny asks, licking cream from her lips. ‘I hate to say it, but I think that’s more likely.’

‘He says not,’ I say with a shrug, ‘and I don’t see why he’d bother lying to me at this stage.’

‘Well, perhaps he’s too embarrassed for Izzy to see the place?’ she suggests.

‘But why would that be?’

She grins at me. ‘Maybe it’s next to a strip club?’

I almost choke on this. ‘I wish it was, but I very much doubt it.’

‘Just in a shitty street, then?’