She had to face it. The reason she and Phil never got beyond that three-date feeling was because there was nowhere else to go. And it wasn’t just Phil putting her in that box: she was letting him do it. A shiver of shame crawled across Tara’s skin, and she rammed the flowers in the wastepaper basket as if they were covered in ants. But they looked obscenely wasteful, stuffed in the bin, and she stared at them crossly, knowing they’d catch her eye all day.

Who could she give them to? Kasia?

She retrieved them with a sigh and marched out into the corridor, but even as she lifted her knuckles to knock on Kasia’s door, Tara realized she’d then have to explain why she was giving them away, and probably get a dose of well-intentioned life coaching in return. Could she leave them in reception ‘for everyone to enjoy’? No, they’d just be a focus for discussion. Or put them in the kitchen? Or throw them out of the window?

Tara stared down into the velvety, expensive roses, and wished she hadn’t allowed herself to start developing proper feelings for a man who, if you snapped him in half, probably had Bad Break-Up written through him like a stick of rock.

On the other hand, she definitely had a good reason to call him now.

‘For God’s sake, Tara, this is so tacky!’ she spat at herself.

There was a discreet cough from down the corridor.

David had just opened his door to a woman with a shaggy black dog in tow. All three were staring at her, and not bothering to hide their curiosity.

Tara swallowed.

‘The flowers. Still quite tacky. From the … flower food,’ she said lamely, and slunk back into her own room, Phil’s roses under her arm.

She had five minutes before her first appointment of the day: Jeannie McAllister for her introductory assertiveness coaching. Take your own medicine, she told herself, and dialled Phil’s number.

When it went to voicemail – as it had done the last two times she’d called, and left not-very-cool messages – Tara closed her eyes. ‘Phil, can you call me, please? There’s something we need to talk about.’ The outrage was already draining pathetically from her voice. ‘Hope you’re all right. It’s been a while!’ (Why, Tara, why?) ‘Um, I’m fine. Sybil misses you. So do I.’ (Oh God.) ‘Bye.’

She looked at the flowers on her table. Jeannie – or as she was now going to be, ‘My lucky hundredth new client!’ – was going to get a really nice surprise.

CHAPTER NINE

On Friday afternoon, Tara had parked up outside the Memorial Hall for the big ‘meeting with the architect from London’, and was debating whether to check in with Toby for some last-minute advice about how to handle it.