Look it wasn’t actually that she spat out the sparkling wine. Rather the level of disgust with which she spat. And the force with which she flung out the rest. I knew then, in that very moment, exactly why I was here. On a remote part of the South African coast, in a house, in a room made into a bar, decorated in swordfish. And other fish. And other trophies. Or at least I thought I did.

It began with a text message from a man I had not heard from in years. Hi Jess. Funny thing. Long Story. Change of a Holiday Plan. Whatever. Ha ha ha. We find ourselves heading for the south coast for a few days. Do you know anywhere we could stay? Yes, I replied.

And so it was arranged. Jolly texts frolicked back and forth. Goodness it has been a long time. Some from him, some from her, and they said, join us. Please come. I vacillated but tears of laughter and joy kept gushing from the happy and loving WhatsApp emoticons and so eventually I said, okay, I’ll make a prawn curry.

But it really began longer ago. In a bar in London. He, the man I was in love with, invited me to meet her, the woman he was in love with. The woman he wanted to be his wife. I wasn’t sure why he invited me. I wasn’t sure why I went. Morbid curiousity probably. A need to meet the woman I was not. I arrived fresh from subbing lists on a weekly trade magazine, tired, brave, dishevelled. Unremarkable and plain in contrast to the goddess who sat before me. I made a big effort and it seemed to be going fine, but then she abruptly left. He said, “I guess I should go after her.” And so I went home.

I decided to write her a note: I’m sorry you left. Perhaps I was a bit too effusive or chatty or laughed too much. Please be assured that although for many long years I was in love with him, I was very much aware that he was only in love with me on the occasional Saturday night in-between his many other activities. And with enormous gaps between those Saturdays. What this says about me, I’ll figure out eventually. What it says about him, I leave to you. All the best, Love Jess.

Of course I never sent it. Of course they got married.

And now decades later, there she was again. The wife I had once hoped I would be. She was on the phone, on the massive veranda, looking out to sea. From the back she looked incredible. Large in leopard print. Amazing Hair. Long and starting off only slightly darker than the fiery blonde it ended up. She turned slightly when she saw I had arrived. Amazing Cheekbones. I mouthed hi. She raised a hand slightly.

I found some children in one of the living rooms. They grunted from their iPads. I gabbled senselessly for about three minutes and then looked for a bedroom to unpack into. More were being occupied than I expected. No sign of him.

When she eventually got off the phone and came towards me, I saw that what her appearance from the back promised, was not to be delivered by the front. Mascara smudged beneath her beautiful, brown, bloodshot eyes, and when she smiled not much moved. She said quickly, “I am so sorry I was on phone, but my hairdresser just died.”

“How awful,” I said.

“He should be here soon. I told him to go and get more wine,’ she said, sniffing and pouring me a drink. ‘He’s changed.”

And when he did slink in, back from his mission, he seemed to me exactly unchanged. As I had known him. Not even a little bit grey. Excessively good looking. As if he had been well looked after.

“The years have been kind,” I said.

He scoffed. She snorted.

“Well yes,” she said. “To him.”

And so it began. An evening of vitriol. Occasionally they would try momentarily to hide the enormous hatred that beyond palpably existed between them, by changing the topic. But nothing would do. I did my best to be the peace-maker, the mediator: a wink here, a soothing hand on a shoulder there, a well-timed insertion of an Adele joke. A role none of us are born to play, but many of us learn quickly.

But as each new insult struck like a blunt knife into the kneecap, I found myself quite unable to contain the spite. Like on about Episode 3 of Behind Her Eyes, it was difficult to decide who was responsible for this tragedy. Him or Her. Back and Forth. Black or White. No grey would satisfy in a situation this miserable. Each new conversation delivered fresh scorn: Failure on his part to attend music festivals with sustained enthusiasm. Failure on her behalf to get through a Monday night homework session without at least two lines of coke and a bottle of chardonnay. Schools, pets, holidays, weather. Nothing was safe. I can’t remember the exactly moment when she spat, but I think it was when he said the word: Menopause.

That was it. Out came the wine, and out went she. Out of placations, I rose to go too.

“One more drink,” he said, pouring more whiskey.

“i’m not quite sure how this happened,” he said quietly. And I thought for one brief moment of hope for humanity he was going to apologise for having put me through such an awful supper. But he didn’t, he just went on and on and on talking about how bad his marriage was, how terrible it was for the children. How he couldn’t remember the exact moment he realised that the woman he thought he was married to had been a conjuring of his own imagination, and probably vice versa.

I sat and listened and drank, and here and there inserted helpful quotations from Mansfield Park and Anna Karenina. For, to link you neatly back to the introductory paragraph, I realised that was after all why I had been invited. To be the gentle ever-understanding back up pal. To play ping pong. To keep them from killing each other. And then, when his hand brushed my knee and ended up rather high up on my thigh, I knew, of course, it was Saturday night again.