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And I'd suggested tea at home. On my territory, in my smart town house with its challenging art on the walls and its antique furniture giving us – or me – the edge. I swallowed.

‘I flounced out,’ I muttered. ‘I mean, just now. For the second time in days.’

‘You've got a lot to flounce about. Where did you flounce the first time?’

‘Malcolm's.’

‘Ah.’ She smiled. ‘An excellent choice. Discreet, too. I saw him yesterday. He didn't mention it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, I popped in to see his ritzy new shop. He offered me a job.’

‘Did he?’ I boggled.

‘Just a couple of mornings a week. Only he's quite busy now he's joined forces with that other chappie. Frightfully attractive – have you met him?’

‘Sadly, yes. A little too glowering for my tastes.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, I don't mind a bit of glowering.’

‘So what did you say?’ I said impatiently. I couldn't help feeling a bit jealous. Mum had been offered a job, in my old shop, by my friend. But… I wouldn't want it, would I? Malcolm knew that. Knew I was too busy. Even so.

‘Hm? Oh, I said yes, in theory. The only thing is, it's Mondays and Fridays, and Mondays I usually do meals on wheels with Felicity.’ Her brow puckered anxiously. ‘I don't like to let her down. I was wondering, darling…’ She glanced at me.

‘Me?’ Do charity work? I was taken aback. But why? Why surprised? Mum did it. Felicity did it. Even Caro, the busiest person in the world, rattled a tin outside Waitrose occasionally for Save the Children. But I'd always been rather snotty about bored, middle-class women salving their consciences by doing Good Works. Why? Because I'd heard Ant say it, that's why. Did I have an original thought in my head?

‘Of course,’ I muttered.

‘Oh, darling, would you? Just till I find a replacement. I know you're terribly busy, and I could ask Jill Copeland because she only works at the library three days a—’

‘No. No, it's fine, Mum. I'm not terribly busy.’

She looked surprised to hear me say it. I drained my glass. Got up to go. But it was true. I didn't have a job. I had one child at school all day. A husband at work all day. A Portuguese lady who cleaned my house. I sat on no committees. I did no charity work. I did nothing. Who was I?

I walked dumbly to the door. I said goodbye to Mum, but I could tell she was watching me as I went down the path to my car. Who was Evie Hamilton? Ant's wife. Anna's mother. But now, recent events were questioning my exclusive rights to even those claims.

I drove home, staring blankly at the rain on the windscreen. They defined me, Ant and Anna. And now, two other women claimed they defined them too. I couldn't see my way through. Oh. Wipers. I felt panic rising as I watched the blades swish hypnotically in front of me. I wanted to get back quickly to my house. Stake my claim. Wanted to shut the door behind me, bolt and bar it, pull up the drawbridge.

I swung into my road. The rain was torrential now, a huge great summer thundercloud bursting under too much pressure, beating its outraged tattoo on the car roof, a horrible, deafening, threatening noise. I needed to get out. My eyes scanned the road, desperate for a space, increasingly rare these days, even in the enlightened age of residents' permits. Many of the houses were divided into flats, so the road still overflowed. Ours wasn't, of course. Divided. Ours, on four floors, including the basement, was one of the few original houses, I used to think smugly. Smug! That's who I was. Smug Evie Hamilton, who expected the world to come to her. A trophy wife. Trophy wife? I blanched as I shot across the road to the opposite side where I'd spotted a space. I lined up to parallel park. God, that suggested Ivana Trump or Victoria Beckham, with beautifully coiffed hair, polished nails, expensive clothes, whereas my roots badly needed touching up, my nails were bitten to the quick and these jeans had been on for three days. I couldn't even get that right. Couldn't even be a groomed and manicured credit to my successful husband, I thought with a flush as I swung back into my space. At least, I thought it was