‘Go to the book launch, and keep an eye on him and his cronies. It’s ten past five! Get out of here. Go.’

Jack turned up at six to look for his charger. He was such a tight-arse. Mary had no idea where he got it from, as she and Roddie loved nothing more than to throw money away. Like most Glaswegians, Jack had lived at home while studying for his degree, leaving only when he was offered a semi-job with a law firm. Two months earlier he and his seven-year-old Labrador, Marty, had moved out. He was kickass at the job, Mary’s mate Adeela had heard, had a great career ahead of him. He was a kickass man.

‘Told ya.’ Jack’s charger was plugged in beside Mary’s bed. He embraced succinctness ten years ago and hadn’t said a word more than necessary since.

‘Sorry.’ She didn’t mean it. She paid for the fucking thing. And she could do with a few more words now and then. To provoke him, Mary showed him the practice comedy set she was working on.

‘I hate it. And it’s so 2017. Oh my God, turn it off, bin it, never show that to anyone ever.’

It was too late. And too good. She’d already emailed her #metoo video to her teacher, Fi, ahead of this week’s heckling class. Her sets in class had been stiff and safe, and Fi had set her the homework of being free and bold and outrageous and honest, and to film herself at home performing. Jack’s response encouraged her. Comedy was supposed to be uncomfortable.

This night class was one of the many risky things Mary was doing to avoid her now-empty nest. Stand-up on Thursdays, yoga Tuesdays, water-colour painting Saturday afternoons (she never went, but she’d written it in her diary in red pen every Saturday for the next six months, which was a damned fine start). She was considering choir too, because the truth was Mary’s voice was haunting. She’d always known it and over the years a few had confirmed it, so choir was going to be either Mondays or Sundays. Life was busy. Life was good. Life would be great.

Before heading out, Mary messaged Roddie on Facebook:

—Off to see Misogyny Man. Have fun in Cairns, but don’t swim in any body of water or you’ll die. In fact, stay inside the hotel, will you?

—No, but if I go out I promise to take the first-aid kit you gave me.

It weighed two kilos. Mary had heard terrible things about Australia.

—Watch out for my editor – Rich from RG Books. Say hi from me.

A kiss and a smiley face later, and fifty-two-year-old mum set off to town with twenty-four-year-old son.