What the actual fuck is wrong with me? I need to get a grip. This won’t work if I swan around with a fucking band of platinum and the huge-ass diamond that Chris insisted on buying for me for our third wedding anniversary after he’d had a particularly large bonus. I’d loved the original engagement ring, with its subtle link of much smaller stones along the front. But Chris had insisted that people needed to see that we were doing well. “I can’t have my wife wearing little dinky things, can I? People will think I don’t love you enough to show it.” It had made me uneasy though. Like he wanted a bigger statement of his ownership, something more noticeable, more obvious. She is mine, this damn thing screamed. Plus I’d been livid he hadn’t used that bonus to pay down some of our mortgage. I slip both my engagement and wedding rings off and put them in my purse, zipping the inside pocket carefully. It would be just my luck right now to lose them.

Rings worn every day create a groove in the skin. Actually, not just the skin, it’s the very flesh that wears away over time. I rub my finger vigorously. When I look up the taxi driver is grinning at me in the rear-view mirror. “Big date, love?” How many times has he watched a man or woman trying to rub away the brand of their marriage in the back of his cab? Enough that he probably won’t remember me. But I have to be more careful. I give him a tight smile in return that should shut down more questions without seeming rude. Anything to make me forget-table.

The restaurant is tucked away down a residential side road in Primrose Hill. It looks like nothing from the outside; you would scurry past to get to a more salubrious area. But it is renowned as one of the best places north of the river. I have never been here before, although I worked with a lady once who could not stop talking about it. Luckily, as part of my recommendations for their company restructure, her role was moved to Edinburgh and she followed. Last time I heard she was on the verge of making CEO and had bagged herself a very attractive toy boy, so I know she won’t appear at the next table.

I have researched this restaurant obsessively, trawling through every photo on Leah’s Instagram and laptop; reviewed the entirety of her Cloud storage, looked at every place she had checked into on social media over the past year or so. So many places and mostly only once or twice, a photo opportunity to be seen in the hottest place in town. Her social life looks exhausting and I am starting to question how long I’ll be able to pull off the pretense, even with Emma’s insistence that I “take things easy.” Just long enough, I keep saying to myself. Just long enough to come up with a proper plan. A month. No more.