There are five entrances that I can see to this apartment block but I remember the one Tara stood outside in the photo when she was bragging about her ‘moving in’ on Facebook. Block B was written above the entrance door in big red letters. It angered me to think of her lording it up in her penthouse suite with some man while I had been reduced to my single bed in my parents’ house in Howth. How did that happen? Why did she get all the luck?

I push on the door of the building as I answer my own question aloud. ‘She took it, Faye, she just took it.’ Then I stare at the letterbox wall inside the foyer with about a hundred different letterboxes and names and wonder where to begin.

A thought suddenly enters my head. What if her name isn’t on any of them? Just the name of her wonderful Australian boyfriend who she thinks she’s marrying next week? What the hell was his name?

I scan the names and numbers and I finally come across Tara’s name. She’s staying in apartment 431. She’s on the fourth floor. I hope she’s alone.

I look at the first name on the box. Lucas Jones. If he’s with her, I’ll have to abandon my plan and just play nice. I’ll say I was passing and thought I’d pop in to see how she’s doing. She might wonder how I know she lives here but I’ll tell her I asked at the coffee shop.

The elevator door is about to close when someone pushes on the entrance door and two girls rush in out of the cold. They’re a lot more prepared for the weather than I am. Hats, scarves, gloves. A strong smell of perfume fills the small space as one of the girls presses the button that I was just about to. Fourth floor.

The lift moves. My heart begins to thump. I’m nervous and excited all at once. It’s about time I confronted her. After all I did for Tara Moore. She’s about to find out how ungrateful I am that she spoiled my future by sleeping with my one true love, Andriu.

The elevator opens and the two women step out in front of me. I’m tracing the direction of the apartment numbers when I notice them knocking on a door further down. They’re visitors too. Visitors with prosecco.

‘Tara, yahoo, only one week to go!’ Their hands are waving in the air and they disappear behind the door.

Blood is pulsing in my neck. That was close.

The heat in the building is making me sweat. I am wiping it from the back of my neck when the second elevator door opens and out walks a tall, handsome, blond-haired man in a pair of jeans and a big parka jacket. He’s noticed me looking lost.