I stared out of the window, a lump constricting my throat, while she sang along to ‘All You Need is Love’ by The Beatles playing on Bay Radio. Of all the songs in the world, why did they have to play that one? Scott was a massive Beatles fan; this was his absolute favourite track of theirs. ‘Pure pop perfection,’ he called it. He often sang it to me then he’d say, ‘Whatever life throws at us, all we need is love to get us through it.’ We’d laugh at the cheesiness but I loved it when he said that. It made me feel really special.

Had he said exactly the same thing to the woman who’d given birth to his baby? Or babies perhaps. The more I thought about the last text he’d sent me before he ghosted me – Adam’s wife had twins yesterday. Boy and girl. 8 weeks early and not doing so well. Feel a bit helpless – the more convinced I was that he’d been talking about himself. Maybe Scott loved me only, but Scott only existed in the imagination of some bloke called Adam who I didn’t know from… er… Adam!

At the flat, I’d stared at the out of office email, my stomach doing somersaults. In a frenzy, I clicked onto LinkedIn – somewhere I’d never previously thought to look – just in case Hilary on reception had made a mistake. There he was: Scott Hastings staring back at me under the profile of Adam Hannigan. Dashing to the bathroom, I’d slumped over the toilet bowl, gasping for breath, but nothing came up. Somehow I found the strength to haul myself to my feet. I brushed my teeth, splashed some water over my face and, in auto-pilot, packed a bag for the weekend.

I’d half expected to find mismatched outfits and no knickers when I arrived at Mum’s but somehow I’d managed to throw in enough clothes to avoid clashing colours or a patterns and patterns disaster.

Catching the tube to Kings Cross last night, I’d felt like I was in a dream. Faces seemed fuzzy, colours blended into each other, and noises were muffled as though I was underwater. On the train to York, I’d stared at the blurred fields and hedgerows through the window, replaying every single conversation I could remember having with Scott, trying to make sense of the lie I’d lived for the past eighteen months. I wanted to disbelieve it. I wanted that so badly but the photographic and written evidence had been there.