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flattering. Gradually, day by day, month by month, I fell in love with him. We got on well and the sex was great. Before long it seemed natural that we’d marry and have children.
    When the kids are asleep, I pick up the photo of Dom and examine it again. Daggy nineties clothes aside, he was bloody good-looking and had a truly amazing smile. He was also a great person to hang out with. We used to spend hours talking, drinking, being stupid and having fun. He’d come up with ridiculous questions like ‘Would you rather be intelligent and extremely ugly or beautiful and stupid?’ and ‘If you were the eighth dwarf, what would your name be?’
    Just thinking about Dom and his laugh is enough to make me break out into a sweat. Even after all these years.

Day 13
    S am’s soccer game kicks off at 8.30 am. I manage to get us there at 8.15. Bella sulks in the car till half-time. When she finally skulks over to me asking for a sausage sandwich, I agree. You have to pick your battles.
    Soccer used to be a lot more social. Today, the parents are concentrating intently on the game. No time for chitchat. Trish, our babysitter’s mum, barely manages a nod, so I don’t like to hassle her about whether Alana is around tonight to babysit. Instead, I smile at the people I know and follow their lead by focusing on the game. It’s a bloody big field for eight-year-olds. Little legs scramble all over the place. I can’t tell them apart, so I focus on Sam’s jersey, number thirteen.
    ‘Good on you for coming,’ Nadia says at half-time. ‘How are you bearing up?’
    I look to her for more information.
    ‘With the renovations? Max?’
    ‘The house is coming together nicely and Max is at a conference,’ I lie.
    Trish walks past us, this time looking furious. I go to wave but she’s clearly in no mood for a cheery Saturday morning greeting.
    ‘Whatever anyone might say, it’s not your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Nadia says.
    ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, worried. It’s the second comment in as many minutes. Obviously she knows something’s up.
    ‘Uh, I’m -’ she begins, but one of the mothers grabs Nadia’s arm and whispers urgently into her ear.
    ‘Nadia,’ I push, but she just says ‘Sorry’ hurriedly and leaves with the other woman, giving me a look that convinces me Sam has said something to Lachlan.
    Twenty-five minutes later, Sam’s team has lost three-nil and the parents are suitably subdued. As soon as they come off the field, the boys, including Sam, disappear into the nearby scrub, stuffing themselves with lollies and singing rude made-up songs about their teachers.
    I try the babysitter’s mobile again. No answer. Obviously out with her uni mates and clearly not too hard-up for spending money. I relent and call Mum.
    ‘We’re gonna party,’ chirps Gloria when we arrive at the entrance to the Actors’ Studio. I’m not overly enthusiastic, feeling more than ever like an old, deserted housewife. Still, sometimes you’ve just got to cross the bridge and experience life on the other side.
    As soon as we step inside, I know I’ve made a huge mistake. Beautiful young things dance to Green Day’s ‘American Idiot’. A surprising number of them are wearing togas.
    ‘Hasn’t changed much, has it?’ says Gloria, taking a wine glass from a waitress dressed as an exotic Egyptian princess.
    I nod and sip. ‘It’s weird how the faces are older but they have fewer wrinkles.’ I’m also aware of the number of older men with much younger women on their arms.
    ‘There are some new faces as well, darling,’ says Gloria, making a beeline for a dark-haired man wearing a jazzy leopard-print skivvy, his right arm in a sling.
    ‘How the fuck have you been?’ says a voice in my ear.
    I jump backwards. It’s Gracie Gardener, my nemesis.
    I hate to admit it, but she looks great, despite having cocaine mouth and eating her lips. She’s wearing a black Max Mara diamanté cardigan. I know it’s Max