‘I found Paolo texting a woman. A friend of his dead wife. And he slept with her.’
‘When?’ I say, genuinely shocked as Paolo has always seemed so rooted to his sofa.
‘Twenty-four years ago. It was before his first marriage, but why’s he texting her now?’ she says, slurping wine liberally.
‘Might be innocent,’ I say.
‘Ha! The moment he proposed to me, he starts missing his wife and reconnects with her best friend.’
‘You might be overreacting,’ I suggest calmly. I fear this is not her first drink.
‘Oh, did he write your script for you? That’s exactly what he said.’
I shake my head. She’s worked so hard on this relationship and with Ellie that it’s sad to see her sabotaging her own happiness because of alcohol-induced paranoia. I am about to lecture her when she throws her arms around me.
‘I’m a fucking idiot, aren’t I?’
‘I’m sure things can be mended.’ I pat her gently.
We stop discussing Sophie and Paolo’s courtship rituals as Cait enters the room with Maeve and Orla. Our children are at nursery, but Cait isn’t letting the twins out of her sight.
Sophie and I fetch our bags of clothes, and within twenty minutes, everything is spread out on the kitchen worktop. Aisha cleverly spirits the twins off to Ria’s room to play with her toys, returns, puts her own troubles to one side, and sits down next to Cait.
‘So, how are you, you poor thing?’ she says.
‘The police came round again,’ says Cait. ‘They’ve started an investigation into the fire.’
‘Was it the boiler?’ asks Aisha.
‘It wasn’t,’ says Cait. ‘But they don’t know what it was yet. They can’t get to the first floor as the beams burnt through, but the fire dog smelt something on the stairs. They think it was an accelerant.’
‘Do they think someone started it?’ says Aisha.
‘I don’t know,’ she says.
‘Have you told them about Owen?’ says Sophie.
Cait looks down to her lap. ‘The thing is... they know I was there that evening. I told them I was.’
‘Oh, what? They think you did it?’ says Sophie.
‘Why would I burn my own house down?’
Cait is about to add something, but she stops and stares ahead as if lost for words. Too much stress is clearly bad for her skin as I can see two or three spots around her mouth.
‘Are you looking after yourself?’ I ask, feeling pleased at how this fire business has stopped her going on about Jason Mercer.
‘I can’t eat or sleep,’ she says. ‘The doctor gave me some antidepressants.’
‘How about the insurance issue?’ asks Aisha. ‘Did you check?’
‘I’m trying to argue with the insurers but they say he’s not paid and the policy has lapsed,’ says Cait.
‘If you want some legal advice, I know someone in Hari’s class,’ says Aisha.
‘Yes, that’s helpful, thank you,’ says Cait, and picks up a blue sweater. ‘This is nice.’
We’re all sipping on the matcha that Aisha insisted we try (I’ve never tasted anything so awful in my life), when Cait’s phone goes off. She scrambles through her bag and finds her old iPhone.
