“Not yet,” said Madeline.

“You do realize she’s going to turn up at your wedding,” said Julia. “When the priest says, ‘If anyone here present knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony,’ she’ll pipe up, ‘Oh, me, me!’”

“I don’t think they actually say that anymore,” said Ellen.

Julia talked over the top of her. “She’ll come charging down the aisle saying, ‘I’m the reason!’”

“She might bring a gun,” said Madeline enthusiastically.

“You’ll have to wear a bullet-proof vest under your gown,” said Julia.

“I don’t think I’ll bring my children,” mused Madeline.

“Mmmm,” said Ellen. This was why she and Patrick hadn’t got very far with their wedding plans. Every time they started talking about it, the conversation came back to Saskia. “Even if we go overseas she’ll probably track us down,” Patrick had said.

He’d seemed relieved when Ellen suggested perhaps they should just wait until after the baby was born, even though his mother would probably “have kittens” about the child being “born out of wedlock.”

Ellen’s nausea wasn’t making her feel very bridal anyway.

“You must hate her,” said Madeline. “I hate her on your behalf. You can’t even plan your own wedding!”

“I don’t hate her,” said Ellen. “Not really. I’d actually quite like to talk to her.”

“Yes, good idea, ask your stalker out for coffee,” guffawed Julia.

“Ring her up now and ask her to join us at the movies,” said Madeline, with a quick, shy grin at Julia.

Julia laughed harder than was necessary. They were bonding over Ellen’s foolishness.

“I might ring her one day,” said Ellen thoughtfully. She stirred her glass of mineral water with her straw and watched the bubbles. “I just might.”

Ever since Sunday I’ve been thinking about the man who came to Ellen’s house.

“Ellen O’Farrell?” he said, and sort of lunged at me when I opened the door. I stepped back and kept the screen door shut.

“No,” I said. “She’s not here.”

“OK, who are you?” He had the tone of someone who demands and receives the very best service. He reminded me of the developers I deal with at work. Men who are so very, very sure of their place in the world.

“Well, who are you?” I said quite snootily, which is funny seeing as I was actually the intruder.

“I’m someone who needs to talk to her,” he said. His nostrils flared. “Urgently.”

“I could give her a message,” I offered, imagining a jaunty little note left on a Post-it on her fridge: Angry man dropped by who needs to see you urgently. Love, Saskia.

“Don’t bother.” He looked like he was trying hard not to punch a wall. “I’ll come back another time.”

“You do that,” I said spiritedly.

And then he left.

It was strange, but as I closed the door, I actually felt defensive on Ellen’s behalf. There’s something so guileless about her, like she believes everyone is as sweet and sincere as she. When clearly we’re not.

Also, I had a strong feeling I knew that man from somewhere. I just couldn’t quite remember where.

“So what was it like meeting the dead wife’s family?” asked Julia. Her cheeks were flushed from all the wine she was drinking, and she’d rubbed her eyes so her mascara was faintly smudged, giving her a sexily disheveled look. In the restaurant’s shadowy mood lighting she looked the way she had when Ellen and she used to take their fake IDs so they could go out drinking together in high school, during their not especially impressive, short-lived rebellious phase. (Her mother and godmothers had got up to much worse when they were teenagers.)

“Oh, but wait, I want to hear about meeting your dad!” Madeline sat back and laced her hands together under her br**sts and across the top of her big belly. As she moved, Ellen’s elbow bumped against the firm flesh of her belly, and she was shocked by the reality of Madeline’s baby. There was an actual baby just centimeters away from Ellen’s elbow. Not just the idea of a baby. A real live baby curled up under the striped fabric of Madeline’s maternity top and the stretched skin of her stomach. Ellen laced her own hands together in imitation of Madeline and placed them across her own stomach, which was still soft and only faintly, implausibly rounded, as if she’d just been enjoying a few too many pizzas. Her clothes were starting to feel tighter, but it was impossible to imagine that in a few months she’d have an enormous stomach like Madeline’s, one that would give her that characteristic pregnant swaybacked gait, one that would cause people to smile and offer a chair and ask, “How much longer now?”

“Her life is like a soap opera these days, isn’t it?” said Julia.

“Like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of Ellen’s lives,” intoned Madeline in a quite good American accent. Ellen had never heard her put on a voice before to make a joke.

“Remember when she was so calm and Zen? Nothing messy ever happened to her?” said Julia.

“That’s not true!” protested Ellen. “I had messy relationship breakups.”

“No, even your breakups seemed to happen on a higher level of existence than the rest of us,” said Madeline.