I plonk myself back down on the sofa and place my head in my hands. So this is rock bottom. I’ve had a few false starts, but this is the one. This is my lowest point. Things can only improve from here.

One thing I know for sure though: I never, ever, ever want to see Freddie again. I don’t think I could look him in the eye.

9

I watch the text cursor flashing on the blank page of my Word document. I’ve been staring at it so long, I’m convinced my heartbeat has fallen in sync with it. I realise it is probably quite slow for a heartbeat, but that’s what it feels like. It feels as if I’m giving up, as if my heartbeat is about to grind to a halt. It’s going to down tools, just as my brain has. I think they’re going on strike, after everything I have put them through over the last couple of days. Between the heartbreak, the over thinking, the binge drinking and the overeating, my poor body has been through so much.

After my embarrassing pool incident with Freddie, I thought it best to hide away and get on with work. I’ve drunk lots of water, and I had a salad brought to my suite for lunch, which my body feels much better for. There is just one problem though… my book, or lack thereof.

My book is due in around five weeks – two of which I am here for. While I admit I have been neglecting doing my work, because things got so crazy in the run-up to the wedding (although, in hindsight, not as crazy as they could have been), I do actually have two thirds of a novel and the plan was to write the final third after my honeymoon. But I can’t do it; I just can’t. How the hell am I supposed to write a love story, when I think love is stupid/possibly doesn’t exist? There’s writing fiction and then there’s completely making things up, and I cannot flog the happy ever after I have always believed in, when I’m not all that sure it exists any more.

So, I’m starting again. I don’t have much choice. There’s no way I can finish writing the love story I started while I was all loved-up and happy. Every romantic thing I wrote, I wrote with Daniel in my head. My mindset has totally changed. There’s no way I can just pick up where I left off – the tone will be completely different.

I dropped my mum a text message to let her know that I’d arrived here safe, promising to call her in the morning. It’s the afternoon now and I’m sure she must be worried about me. I can’t put off talking about what happened any longer, as much as I'm trying to bury my head in the sand by working – or trying to, at least.

‘Hello,’ my mum answers after one ring. I feel guilty, as if she’s been waiting by the phone for me to call.