She fired up her other phone. Facebook and email had gone wild with links to The Lion’s Roar and other men’s rights sites, all of which portrayed Mary as public enemy number one.

Mary was surprised at how little she gave a fuck. She was too tired to give one. She could have slept for a month. When Roddie’s money came in, any day now, she could book a week in a spa, or a month in an American clinic specialising in emotional exhaustion. They’d feed her, force her to eat fruit. She’d get massages and tell people all her shit for a change, bore them with the series of life events that led her to be the most hated woman in Scotland.

Mary turned both phones off again. She must not think about that.

3.00 p.m. What time was Roddie getting in? And how long before she could have a drink: two hours? Unless you’re on Australian time of course, which Roddie would be, and which she should maybe try to be on too; so she could selflessly be his jet-lag hag. She poured herself a ‘living-room Sangiovese’ (smaller in appearance than a ‘kitchen’ one, but appearances can be deceptive), ran the bath, and took off her clothes. The stress of the last week had taken its toll, and to her delight, she was sporting a significant thigh gap. Mary was looking for the measuring tape when a figure appeared through the frosted glass of the front door. Keys jangled, the door opened. ‘Roddie!’

They’d always been excellent at long-distance relationships, if the relationship was with each other. Mary had backpacked with a childhood friend the year after they got together, for example – a long-anticipated Asia-inspired experience that ended the childhood friendship. She and Roddie had written to each other each week for six months: happy letters that Mary recently discovered in a biscuit tin and realised were love letters.

If anyone asked the secret to their success, they’d both give the same two answers. The first was that they talked. Poor communication was a stupid reason to screw things up, Mary reckoned. So many tragedies could be avoided by a simple conversation, by the quick imparting of relevant information.

Mary was sobbing into his chest. ‘Is Jack okay? He’s falling for the guy’s daughter, we have to stop it.’ She didn’t want to let him go.

‘He’s fine, baby. He’s absolutely fine. I’ve been chatting to him.’

‘I shouldn’t have breached him,’ Mary said.

‘You should have breached him sooner.’

She held Roddie’s face to impart the most important piece of information. ‘Derek McLaverty’s saying I was having an affair with Macdowall.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘I know.’ Mary nuzzled into his chest again, so relieved. ‘I have to go to a meeting on Monday about all this. I’m fantasising about resigning then.’