There they were. And then, there they weren’t. Marnie, against my better judgement, had convinced me to have a glass of wine. But it’s never only a glass with Marnie, and by the time she’d topped me up for the third time, I realised I was already feeling a little tipsy.

 

She’d been speaking to me about Steve. Apparently he’d started taking her for granted. As I cast my eye around her kitchen, complete with a Smeg fridge and Berg coffee machine, which cost close to £600 – I know, because I’d looked it up the day she got it – I couldn’t see any signs of Steve’s complacency. What Marnie wanted, Marnie got.

 

My head was spinning slightly, and I covered my glass with a trembling hand as she went in for the fourth pour. “No, I don’t expect you do,” Marnie mumbled, as though I’d told her enough was enough and I didn’t want any more booze. She was always talking to you as though in reply.

 

And it was only then, in the awkward silence that might have implied that Marnie was, in fact, an alcoholic, that I noticed the absence of any other  noise.

 

“The boys,” I shouted at Marnie’s blank, wine-reddened face. But by then, of course, it was too late. The front door stood open in silent rebuke.

 

The police searched for weeks but we never did find out what had happened to them. After that, I never drank again.

 

Marnie, on the other hand . . .