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could never just leave without even writing a note. I already nearly hate her and the heartbreak she has caused.
    It looks like it might rain. I start to walk more quickly. I want to get home so I can curl up under the duvet with a nice big mug of hot chocolate and watch the telly. That’s one of the nice things about being alone: I don’t have to bargain with Diarmuid about whether to watch one of my favourite American sitcoms or one of his sports programmes.
    My mobile phone rings, and I grab it from my pocket. It could be Diarmuid. I want to talk to him and apologise. I really want to k eep the lines of communication open.
    ‘Hi, how are you?’ Fiona says cheerfully. Fiona is my oldest friend and a cheerful sort of person. Even if she didn’t own a big tasteful house and have a silver sports car and a garden pond full of koi carp, she would probably be happy. And she is even happier now that she and Zak are expecting their first baby.
    ‘Hi there, Fiona!’ I raise my voice an octave. When I compare my life to Fiona’s, I can’t help thinking that she seems to know how to be Fiona O’Driscoll so much better than I know how to be Sally Adams. I’ve known her since secondary school, and she’s always had this sort of glow and buzz about her. It’s almost impossible not to like her; but, now that she’s even happier than ever and I’m frequently far from ecstatic, I have not been seeking out her company. But Fiona is the kind of person who keeps in touch with her friends, especially friends who have recently separated from almost-brand-new husbands – I’ve only been married to Diarmuid for a year, eight months and four days.
    ‘Look, why don’t you come round for a nice big glass of wine?’ Fiona says. ‘I know you need a bit of cheering up after visiting Aggie.’
    ‘How do you know I’ve just visited Aggie?’ I enquire, wondering if all the people I know are suddenly becoming telepathic.
    ‘You always visit Aggie on Tuesday evenings between seven and half-eight,’ Fiona laughs. ‘It’s part of the Sally Adams schedule!’
    I frown. Fiona has clearly decided I’m a stickler for routine just because I like to keep Tuesday evenings – and sometimes Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons – free for Aggie. I hesitate before replying. Do I really feel up to visiting Fiona’s exquisite house and drinking wine out of one of her huge billowy hand-blown glasses?
    ‘Sally? Sally, are you still there?’ Fiona says. ‘I’ll come and collect you if you like. Where are you?’
    ‘I’m getting on a bus,’ I reply. In fact, the bus nearly sailed by as if it were in a Formula One race, and I had to stick my arm out and jump up and down to get the driver’s attention. ‘Thanks so much, Fiona. That glass of wine sounds great. I should be with you in…’ At this point I drop the phone, because I have been attempting to extract the exact fare from my purse and the driver has been glowering at me. I toss some coins at him and bend to retrieve my phone before he stampedes off again. Even though I scurry, the bus lurches off dramatically and I am flung into a seat and sit there scowling. Do drivers do that on purpose? And why have I said ‘Yes’ to Fiona, when what I really want to do is just go home? Sometimes I really envy April’s ability to say ‘No’ without the slightest trace of doubt or guilt. If I were living in San Francisco, I bet I’d feel I had to fly home for Marie’s big do. I am the dutiful daughter, the one who turns up and phones and remembers people’s birthdays. That’s why everyone finds it so hard to believe I left Diarmuid. I am just not the sort of person who does that kind of thing.
    The only people who don’t seem to be surprised are Fiona and Erika. Before I got married, I sometimes saw them huddled together in earnest conversations, and I knew they were dis cussing me because they always said things like ‘So you use five carrots’ when I joined them. Erika and