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one. Possibly permanent.’

      ‘Do you miss him?’ asked Grace.

      Christ, Grace was pretty, thought Imogen. Just such a pretty girl. Still young, too. Thirty-four! That was nothing. Grace could get anyone. She really shouldn’t be wasting another second on that horrible husband of hers. She was so proud of her friend for kicking him out.

      ‘God, no!’ said Frankie, sitting up and rummaging in an empty packet of nuts. She unearthed one, right in one corner, and triumphantly popped it in her mouth. ‘The house is tidier, it smells nicer, no one is going on at me. And I only have to cook one dinner. It’s heaven! Think of all the great things about not having a man in the house. There’s loads of them! Actually, I’ve got a question,’ she said, coming to a perch at the edge of the sofa.

      ‘Go for it!’ mumbled Imogen, chomping on a mini poppadum.

      ‘Okay,’ said Frankie. ‘If your other half is the sole breadwinner and goes out to work and your role is stay-at-home mum, does that mean the partner is required to do absolutely nothing at home?’

      ‘Give me an example.’ Imogen was examining her nails.

      Frankie sighed. ‘You’re so lucky you don’t have to worry about all this!’

      ‘Too right, and now I’m taking myself out of the game I’ll never have to.’

      Frankie stuck her tongue out at her. ‘Right okay then. Example. When he makes himself a snack, is it perfectly acceptable to leave all his crockery and stuff on the counter above the dishwasher and not actually in the dishwasher?’

      ‘God, no!’ said Grace.

      ‘Hell, no!’ shouted Imogen.

      Frankie was warming to her theme. She rose further from the sofa. ‘When he gets home from work, is it acceptable to take off his shirt and underwear and suit and dump them all on the floor in the corner of the bedroom even though the laundry basket is just there, a foot away?’

      ‘No!’ Imogen and Grace yelled.

      Frankie was standing up now. ‘When the he gets back from an IT conference in bloody Milton Keynes, is it okay for him not to unpack his own case, because he believes I’m going to do it, and when I don’t do it, out of protest, is it okay to leave the thing there unpacked for three whole weeks?’

      ‘You do realise you’re shouting, love?’ said Imogen, ignoring the fact they’d all been yelling their heads off.

      ‘Of course I’m shouting! I’m furious! So, is it acceptable?’

      ‘Of course it’s not!’ Grace had been shouting and laughing along, although they all knew she’d done everything at home and wouldn’t let James help even if he’d tried to.

      ‘But you’re free of him now, honey,’ said Imogen. ‘All that nonsense is gone.’

      ‘Free, free, free,’ Frankie sung, in the manner of the Nelson Mandela song, then slumped back down on the sofa.

      ‘Are you missing it?’ said Grace in a quieter voice.

      ‘It? What?’

      ‘Sex.’

      ‘God, no!’ exclaimed Frankie. ‘I’m well over all that! It just takes so bloody loooong. I can now get some sleep.’ She stretched her bare feet out luxuriously in front of her and sighed contentedly as she admired her nails. ‘You, Grace?

      ‘Sometimes. I suppose he hasn’t been gone long, anyway. But it’s fine, I can manage without it.’

      ‘I’ve got a banana,’ offered Imogen, sitting up and pointing one out. She’d left her pale blue fruit bowl on the table in the pretence any of them would be remotely healthy tonight. The banana was nestled between a couple of apples and the whole ensemble looked like a fruity part of the male anatomy. They all giggled. Frankie did a guffaw and a snort and nearly fell off the sofa.

      Grace grinned. ‘Ha, no I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. Then her face dropped. ‘I hate him,’ she said, sadly. ‘I miss him. But he’s a bastard who doesn’t deserve me. I won’t have him in my life any more. I’m never letting him come back.’

      ‘Good!’ shouted Imogen. ‘Good! We don’t need them! If I never see a pair of men’s underpants again it’ll be too soon. I don’t care even if they’re David Bloody Beckham’s! Good riddance to the lot of them!’ She grabbed the banana from the bowl and attempted to use it as a gavel, on the table. The end broke. Frankie snorted again.

      Grace picked up the abused banana and took it to the kitchen. She’d been tidying up all evening; whenever they’d finished a wrapper of something, she’d get up and take it to the bin.

      ‘For God’s sake, leave it!’ Imogen had shouted good-naturedly, at one point. ‘The world’s not going to blow up if you leave an empty packet of Minstrels on the table! Sit down!’ Grace had laughed and taken it well. She’d sat back down and smoothed out the empty packet in the middle of the table, as though it was a centrepiece at a wedding.

      Grace would be okay, thought Imogen. She was a good girl. A bit too tidy and sensible, but highly fabulous. She reckoned she’d flourish without a man. Come into her own. They all would. They’d all be absolutely brilliant without men. It was almost a revelation. Why had it taken them all so long?

      ‘We should have a charter!’ she screeched, suddenly. She lurched up off the floor and started jumping up and down in front of her white marble fireplace.

      ‘A charter?’ said Grace and Frankie, in unison.

      ‘A charter! You know, a mission statement. What we believe in.’ She tapped out points with her finger on the palm of her hand. ‘No men, at all. No dating, no husbands, no nothing. We’re independent. We’re self-sufficient. We help each other. We look after each other. We fix our own stuff.’ Her voice rose to a near shout, a clarion call. ‘We don’t need ’em, we don’t want ’em!’ She felt impassioned, fired up, drunk. ‘We have sworn off men. We should form a club!’

      ‘Not the Secret Seven, again?’ groaned Frankie. ‘I don’t want to drink ginger beer and go snooping round the neighbourhood in my pyjamas!’

      ‘No,’ said Imogen. ‘Not a club, then. But we should make a declaration. That we’re going to be single. Let’s see if we can do it!’

      ‘For ever?’ asked Grace.

      ‘Maybe not for ever…but let’s see if we can do it for a year!’ enthused Imogen. ‘Yes! A year of being single. The three of us. A strong, powerful, kiss-ass trio. We’ll be like Charlie’s Angels but without the Charlie.’

      ‘Or the Bosley,’ added Frankie, helpfully.

      ‘I’m not sure,’ said Grace, doubtfully. ‘It all sounds very Sisters are Doing it for Themselves. Very Germaine Greer. Do we have to wear hemp sandals and not shave our legs?’ She picked up a couple of crumbs off the carpet with her fingernail and deposited them on a plate. ‘And I’m not sure I have sworn off men,’ she pouted. ‘Just James, and anyone else who wants to hurt me.’

      ‘That’s all of them, then!’ exclaimed Imogen. ‘We’re not going to put up with them any more! We’re going to have a year of being single. Are you in?’

      ‘I’m in!’ whooped Frankie.

      ‘Grace?’

      ‘Okay,’ said Grace reluctantly. ‘I guess so.’

      ‘And no,’ declared Imogen. ‘We don’t have to wear hemp sandals. I wouldn’t be seen dead in them.’

      For the next three hours, the three of them laughed, chatted, sang along to an old Whitney Houston album, managed to fend off Frankie who wanted them to all stand up and sing ‘I Will Survive’ into remote controls, demolished a whole

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