As she cuts tiny slivers for us, asking if we’d like wine, too – ‘Oh, go on then,’ Shelley says, as if she’s taken some persuading – I start to feel quite hysterical that the man with whom I shared my life for a quarter of a century now lives directly above a giant reeking Stilton wheel. If it weren’t for that – or my tipsiness – it might have felt awful to be confronted by the undeniable evidence that Andy really does have a home away from Izzy and me, and isn’t merely floating about in the ether like a kind of philandering spectre. But as it is, my seemingly bleak Sunday has turned out to be far cheerier than I could have imagined.

‘You know the flats upstairs from here?’ I venture as the young woman pours our wine.

‘Yes?’

‘Does the smell from the shop carry up there, d’you think?’

She chuckles and hands around the cheeses and wine. ‘I’d imagine it must do. Maybe not so much to the top floor, but definitely to the one above. It was empty for years, actually. Someone only moved in a few months ago.’ She grins and passes around more samples. ‘They must love cheese, is all I can say.’

‘Yes, they must,’ I agree. We finish our samples and wine, and naturally, the chunk of Brie de Meaux I feel obliged to buy sets me back a few quid. But I shall relish every morsel, I reflect, as Penny and I share a taxi home.

‘Fancy coming in?’ she asks as we pull up at her block. ‘We could round things off with a G&T. I even have lemons. And ice!’

Normally I’d have enjoyed ending the evening in her cluttered flat with the beaded curtains and twinkling chandelier, the shelves teetering with artefacts and hand-crocheted blankets strewn about. But our afternoon boozing has knocked me for six, so I thank Penny for her offer, deciding instead to take myself home and soak in a deep bath.

There I wallow, inhaling the mandarin scent of my favourite bath oil and wondering if Estelle Lang enjoys her sojourns to the stinking love nest. Perhaps it adds a certain piquancy to their sex life? He swears they’re still not living together, so maybe she has a flat of her own in town somewhere, or is still living in Edinburgh. He hasn’t divulged, and I wouldn’t dream of asking i.e. giving any indication that I give a stuff about their domestic arrangements. But now I’m wondering: does he take the cheese smell with him when he visits her, stuck to his clothes and hair?

These thoughts are immensely pleasing as I towel myself dry, pull on soft cotton pyjamas and climb into bed. Picturing Andy choking on Camembert fumes, I slide into a blissful, booze-induced sleep.

Chapter Fifteen

Wednesday, August 7