‘And this trip was spontaneous?’ asked Sarah incredulously.

As you know, Todd and I were never noted for our spontaneity. Sarah’s husband Mark glared across the table at her. ‘Darling.’

She met his gaze. ‘I hate “darling”. It’s code for “shut the fuck up”, isn’t it?’

You’d like Sarah. Maybe that’s why we’re friends, from the start she reminded me of you. She turned to Todd. ‘When was the last time you and Beatrice had a row?’ she asked.

‘Neither of us is into histrionics,’ Todd replied, self-righteously trying to puncture her conversation.

But Sarah’s not easily deflated. ‘So you can’t be bothered either.’

There followed an awkward silence, which I politely broke, ‘Coffee or herbal tea anyone?’

In the kitchen I put coffee beans into the grinder, the only cooking I was doing for the meal. Sarah followed me in, contrite. ‘Sorry, Beatrice.’

‘No problem.’ I was the perfect hostess, smiling, smoothing, grinding. ‘Does Mark take it black or white?’

‘White. We don’t laugh any more, either,’ she said, levering herself up onto the counter, swinging her legs. ‘And as for sex…’

I turned on the grinder, hoping the noise would silence her. She shouted above it, ‘What about you and Todd?’

‘We’re fine thanks,’ I replied, putting the ground beans into our seven-hundred-dollar espresso maker.

‘Still laughing and shagging?’ she asked.

I opened a case of 1930s coffee spoons, each one a differently coloured enamel, like melted sweets. ‘We bought these at an antiques fair last Sunday morning.’

‘You’re changing the subject, Beatrice.’

But you’ve picked up that I wasn’t; that on a Sunday morning, when other couples stay in bed and make love, Todd and I were out and about antique shopping. We were always better shopping partners than lovers. I thought that filling our apartment with things we’d chosen was creating a future together. I can hear you tease me that even a Clarice Cliff teapot isn’t a substitute for sex, but for me it felt a good deal more secure.