In the work canteen, I pick at a soggy apple turnover and scroll to Cathy’s mobile number. Ridiculously, I am wondering whether Andy remembered her birthday, and managed to navigate Marks & Spencer to choose a blouse for her. Christ, does he even know her size? Does he know she shuns pastels and short sleeves? Would he be able to name her favourite fragrance (J’Adore by Dior) if someone pointed a gun at his head? Probably not, as I took care of roughly ninety-eight per cent of all gift buying for his family during our years together. The one time I rebelled, when I was up to my eyes with a Christmas production, he manfully took the reins and genuinely thought it would be okay to give his parents a sole joint present – of a tin of biscuits with a picture of Father Christmas on the lid. ‘I thought they’d like them,’ he’d said, looking hurt.

‘If you ever give me biscuits, it’s over,’ I’d warned him, to which he quipped, cheekily: ‘What, even dark chocolate digestives?’

Pushing such unwelcome thoughts from my mind, I make the call. Cathy answers, sounding pleased, but a little taken aback, to hear from me. ‘Hello, Viv. How are you?’

‘I’m good, thanks, Cathy. Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.’

‘That’s very kind of you to remember.’ Of course I remembered. I’ve remembered for twenty-odd years!

I clear my throat. ‘Are you enjoying your day?’

‘Yes, very much, thanks. We’re just about to go out for lunch, actually.’

‘Oh, I won’t keep you …’

‘No, it’s fine,’ Cathy says quickly. It feels like a punch, the realisation this awkwardness between us isn’t just a temporary thing in the wake of the break-up. Of course, everything has changed, and it would be naive of me to expect us to be able to chat away, like in the old days, when she’d almost seemed like a surrogate mum. (‘The old days.’ Is that what they are already? If I’d known I’d have appreciated them more!) I can hardly believe I cried in her arms after my own mum died thirteen years ago. It strikes me, too, that this is a new and undoubtedly difficult situation for her; out of the six siblings Andy is the only one whose marriage has failed. By all accounts, everyone else’s is blissfully happy.

‘Did you have fun up at Loch Fyne?’ I ask, in order to fill the lull.

‘It was lovely,’ Cathy says. ‘We did miss Izzy, though. Everyone did. Such a shame she couldn’t come …’ She seems to catch herself then and tails off. I nudge the pastry crumbs together with my finger on the plate.

‘I know, and I’m sorry. But she’d set her heart on going to her friend’s caravan.’