I shoot out of the chair as if I’ve been given an electric shock. Actually, my body did give me an electric shock, like when you’re sleeping and your body thinks you’re dying so it electrocutes you. I pace in circles around the room.

“Tell me everything you said to him and everything he said back.”

“Gemma, this isn’t a good idea.”

“Not telling me Jake got divorced was the bad idea. How could you?”

“I’m sorry, but you seemed finally happy.”

“Do I look happy now?”

“Not so much.”

“I need you to tell me everything. When did he get divorced?”

“He told me they started discussing a separation in early April this year,”

“But that’s just after I met his wife in my office. When was it? Right after Richard proposed, so first days of March. That explains the melancholy expression she had. Did he say why they got divorced?” My brain and my heart are in a race to decide which one’s frying faster. And adrenaline’s fueling them both.

“Something about understanding they weren’t right for each other.”

“So when did he move here?”

“Two months ago, early July.”

Jake. Wifeless. Living in my city for two months. And I didn’t know. What if I passed him on the street and did not see him?

“Did he say why London?” I’m not letting myself hope yet.

“He said The London Clinic offered him a research position here a year ago, around the time he got married. He refused it at the time, but they kept insisting… offering him bigger and bigger salaries and more and more research independence every time. So when they renewed the offer just after he’d signed the divorce papers, he finally took it.”

Uh, not what I expected. What did I expect?

“Did he… hem… ask about me?”

“Yes, he asked how you were and told me he knew you were engaged and asked when the wedding was.”

“I told Sharon that day in my office and she must’ve told him. What next?”

“I told him you were getting married the first of September at Fulham Palace, so he told me to give you his felicitations.”

My heart seems to be winning the race for the more stressed organ. “Did he… did he say anything else?”

“No, he told me to take care and went on his way.”

I collapse back on the chair and my sides pay for it as I receive a vicious stab from the corset.

“How did he look when he asked about my wedding? Sad? Genuinely happy? Indifferent?”

“He didn’t have any particular look. Listen, Gemma, it was a five-minute conversation on the street, nothing more.”

“Nothing more? How can you say that? Jake living here, in my city, single! And you say, ‘Nothing more.’ How could you not tell me? I could’ve… I could’ve…”

“What? Canceled the wedding?”