I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date,
I sing to myself as I hurry down the road – half-walking, half-running. It’s as if everything’s conspiring against me to get to Joseph’s house: the pesky dog walker with his out-of-control terriers and their ridiculously long leads that seemed to be attempting to trip me up; the traffic getting out of Portsmouth, that saw me getting stuck
at every single red light; the lack of car parking spaces anywhere near his house.

I’m desperately trying not to be any later as Joseph hates tardiness. It’s high on his list of pet peeves. I know he’ll tell me that I should have left earlier, but I thought I’d have plenty of time.

Even the little kitten heels I’m wearing aren’t helping. They’re those annoying shoes that fool you into thinking
they’re practically flat until you have to get somewhere fast and you realise that you’re tottering about. I should have worn some killer skyscraper heels – at least they would have given me that sexy long-leg look.

I finally arrive at Joseph’s town house, and ring the bell. I see his outline walking towards the opaque glass of the door, and, despite the fact that we’ve been together for almost
a year, I get butterflies in my stomach. Proof that it must be love.

‘Ah, hello. At last,’ he says as he opens the door.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, reaching up and kissing him, hoping to make up for my lateness. ‘I was at the hairdresser and then I nipped into Waitrose to pick up dessert, then traffic was terrible and I couldn’t get parked.’

I push past him, slipping off my kitten heels, so as
not to mark his wooden floors, and pad into the kitchen, depositing the shopping bag I was carrying onto his long oak table. I look round the room – something doesn’t seem right. It takes me a second to register that it’s cold and quiet, which is surprising considering that he’s supposed to be making us dinner.

‘I thought I’d wait for you before I started cooking,’ he says as he walks in behind
me, reading my mind. He goes over to the sink and washes his hands meticulously like a surgeon and my stomach lets out a sigh of relief that food preparation is imminent. I’m starving. ‘I just got us some pasta and sauce.’

My heart sinks a little. It’s not as if I’d expected him to have morphed into James Martin overnight, but when he’d suggested a night in with him cooking, I imagined him slaving
lovingly over the stove. We always go out for dinner on a Saturday night to some fancy restaurant that seems to feed us the same amount a shrew would eat, and I’ve been looking forward to pigging out on home-cooked food all day. Pasta and sauce was not what I had in my mind. I know it’ll be fresh pasta and sauce from M&S, as Joseph’s a bit of a supermarket snob, but still.

Thank heavens I bought
an emergency cheesecake, or else it really would have been a disaster.

I try and shrug off the disappointment and go and wrap my arms around his waist. Nothing cheers me up like a kiss and cuddle. He follows suit, hugging me back and I breathe in his aftershave.

‘So what do you think of my haircut?’ I ask, leaning backwards and giving my long hair a little flick.

‘Did you have much cut off?’
He’s squinting as if he’s trying to see what I’ve had done. Maybe he can’t see it properly because I’m so close to him. Or more likely he’s a typical man who probably wouldn’t notice if I’d had the whole lot chopped off.

‘About half an inch,’ I reply, shaking it about.

In his defence I do have very long hair, and half an inch is probably like throwing a pebble into an ocean, but it looks all
glossy and bouncy in that way that only a hairdresser can make happen.

‘Looks nice,’ he says, pulling away from me.

I take that as my cue to unpack the bag of shopping. I pull out the emergency cheesecake and place it in the fridge. Sure enough, there on the top shelf is the M&S-branded tagliatelle and a pot of sauce. I can read my boyfriend like a book.

‘Do you want something to drink?’
he says, turning to look at his wine rack.

He’s a little quiet and I’m wondering if he’s pissed off that I was late, but the dark circles around his eyes bear all the hallmarks of stress. He’s probably spent the afternoon working. He’s been burning the candle at both ends lately with all the pressure he’s been under.

Hopefully a nice night in will help to relax him.

I could give him one of
my special back massages or, better yet, we could have a bath with candles and bubbles, like in the movies, in his gorgeous freestanding Victorian bath with feet.

‘Earth to Abi. Drink?’ he asks again, snapping me out of my fantasy in which he’s wearing nothing but a beard of bubbles.

‘Yes, that would be nice. I bought a bottle of Chianti,’ I say, reading the label as I pull it out of the bag
and put it on the table.

‘It’s pronounced
key
-anti,’ he says, enunciating.

I blush a little. Of course it is. I’d gone down the chi route – you know, like the tea.

He playfully gives my bum a slap with the tea towel he’s holding, as if acknowledging my schoolgirl error, before taking the bottle out of my hands.

Before I met Joseph I thought wines were red, white and rosé. He’s been slowly
trying to educate me. I’d only bought this
Chi
anti as it was half price and it’d won some wine award.

‘Looks like a good bottle,’ he says as he peruses it before unscrewing the cork with the fancy corkscrew that I can never work.

Pleased that he’s at least opening it, meaning that it’s passed the label test, I sit down at the table.

‘So I was thinking,’ I say, trying to cheer him up, ‘about
our anniversary next month. I thought we could perhaps go away for the weekend. You know, to a country hotel or spa, or to a nice city like Bath or York.’

I try and drop it into conversation as if it’s no big deal, and not like it’s been the only thing I’ve been thinking about since I had the idea last week.

‘What date is it?’

‘What date?’ I say far too squeakily and quickly.

I’m shocked
he doesn’t know, but men are rubbish with remembering stuff like that, aren’t they?

‘Twentieth March.’

‘Oh, um . . . it’s my mum’s birthday that weekend, and my sister’s coming down for it. I think we’re going somewhere for Sunday lunch.’

‘Right,’ I say, trying not to be too disappointed.

It’s our first anniversary and I’m more than a little excited. It’s the longest relationship that I’ve
ever had, so I wanted to milk the occasion a little. I’ve already seen the perfect gift for him and made a Moonpig card with our photo on it.

‘Yeah. Sorry,’ he says, shrugging.

It takes me a minute to realise that he’s neither suggested that I accompany him to the birthday lunch with his family, whom I’ve never met, nor that we go away on a different weekend.

Undeterred and ignoring the warning
signs, I plough on.

‘How about just a day spa?’

I can just see us in matching fluffy robes. I look up to see that he’s concentrating on opening the bottle of wine like his life depends on it. ‘Or we could just do the normal, go out for dinner . . . or even just drinks,’ I say, unable to give up on the idea, my voice becoming ever more feeble.

The cork pops out with a lip-smacking noise as
if highlighting the silence that has descended on the room. I watch him pour the wine into a decanter stony faced.

‘Or we don’t have to do anything. It’s just an anniversary. No biggie,’ I say, wishing that I’d never said anything.

‘Abi,’ he says, turning towards me and leaning back against the sideboard in a way that makes my stomach flip for all the wrong reasons. ‘We need to talk.’

Chapter One

Three weeks, six days and unknown hours since the love of my life stamped violently on my heart.

I glance up at the oversized clock on the office wall and it seems to be saying it’s four o’clock. I have to immediately double check it against my computer to make sure I haven’t misread it.
Four o’clock?
How did that happen? I’ve managed to make it through seven hours of work with
no tears. OK, almost no tears, but the sobbing I did in the toilet technically doesn’t count as I was on my lunch break.

I know it sounds a bit pathetic that I’m excited to get through a day at work – as most normal people do day in, day out – but it’s the first time that I’ve made it into the office since Joseph dumped me a month ago.

I’m lucky that I work as a graphic designer at a vibrant
marketing agency, where my boss strongly believes that a bit of home-working fuels creativity. I can’t say that it’s fuelled much of mine over the last few weeks, but it has allowed me to indulge in the mother of all moping sessions. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than peeling myself out of my frumpy pyjamas, or doing such basic tasks as showering and hair-washing on a daily basis. How the
non-home-working heartbroken people go out to work every day is beyond me.

But, amazingly, here I am, in freshly laundered clothes and clean hair, having lasted a whole seven hours more than I thought I would.

I hate to admit it, but my best friend Sian was right, it has done me good. Not that I’ll tell her of course. I’d never hear the end of it.

I’d love to say that I came into work today
of my own accord; that I’d woken up feeling a step closer to getting over Joseph, the love-of-my-life who dumped me out of the blue, but in truth my boss told me in no uncertain terms that I had to come in as not only is my work – to quote him – ‘slipping’, but it’s agency photo day. It’s the day of the year that I dread under normal circumstances, let alone when my eyes are puffy and red as a result
of weeks of crying my heart out.

‘You’re next, Abi,’ calls Rick, my boss, as he walks past my work station.

‘Great,’ I mutter, feigning enthusiasm. I’ve been hearing yells and screams emanating from the lobby all day, which hasn’t done anything to ease my apprehension.

Rick hates corporate-looking photos, and he always wants our web mugshots not only to be up-to-date, but also to look like
working at our agency is the most fun ever.

This year he’s excelled himself. I thought it was an early April Fool’s joke, but it turns out he’s deadly serious. He’s installed a trampoline in the lobby – the kind that seems to blight the gardens of anyone that’s got kids. He’s rigged up our studio’s green screen behind it and the idea is that we’ll all be jumping ecstatically in front of a brilliant
blue sky on a summer’s day that will be superimposed later.

I’m absolutely petrified of heights and the thought of bouncing up and down on a trampoline gives me the heebie-jeebies.

‘If you want to come on down, you can watch Giles and then when Seb’s finished with him, you can hop straight on.’

I nod and stand up to follow him out of our office and into the lobby that we share with six other
companies. Just in case it wasn’t embarrassing enough that I have to make a giant tit out of myself in front of my own work colleagues when I’m quaking with fear, there’s also a whole host of other people milling about to witness it.

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