‘I know.’ I think I probably did say that. I like the word archipelago. In fact I was only going to Lesbos.

‘And a road closure is not a good reason to miss check-in,’ she says disapprovingly.

‘I nearly missed check-in.’

‘Nearly. But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

Both of us hold out to see who will break the silence first. I have a good track record in forcing her hand. It’s about the only thing I can do in our relationship, but this time, I break first. ‘Look, cut me some slack. I am on the edge of a tightly controlled, emotional clifftop right now.’

‘Ahh, babe. I know. Look, never mind. It happens. Will has a couple of single ushers. Maybe there will be someone at the wedding you could hook up with!’

‘So it’s back on then!’

‘It was never really off. As if I’d not marry my Will.’

‘As if indeed.’

‘Oh, hang on, babe, I’ve got to go. Will’s back from work and after shouting at him on our last phone call I think I’d better slap some lippy on and show him how sorry I am. Love you, bye, bye, bye.’ She hangs up.

‘Love you, bye.’ I say into the ensuing silence. I’m left with an image of Lou’s own particular style of sex-crobatics, burned onto my retina from the time I accidentally walked in on them both on a weekend away in Robin Hood’s Bay. Every time she talks about sex, I’m back in their room.

I try to shake it off, looking around the flat. Having not made it to B&Q, all the little jobs seemed to stand out. It’s been long enough; I really should get this place sorted. I bought this flat. My name is on the deeds. But until he moved in, I guess it wasn’t a home. Just a place to crash and burn. Nothing’s changed in here since the day I came home to find he’d moved out after sending the text. It was like someone had thumped me in the gut with a removal van. He had taken almost everything, except for my grandma’s dining table and a threadbare rug I’d bought on a whim. When I’d first brought it back, he’d sneered, then placed it beneath the dining table, refusing to have it in the lounge. I should have seen it coming then; things could never work out with a man who couldn’t put up with a rug. ‘Bollocks,’ I say, the frustration lost in my empty flat. Then I get up, and pull and push the dining table enough to release my rug from its hiding place. ‘It’s vintage, not threadbare,’ I mutter, holding up the table with my shoulder and pulling it out. I drag it into the middle of the lounge, yanking it straight and standing back to admire it. The waft of air as I drop it fans the feather back up in the air. I catch it, placing it on the side. My lounge. The last box of his stuff taunts me from the corner, so I shift it to the front door. If he won’t come and get it, I’ll take it to him. I ignore the chin wobble and the stinging eyes, and instead I nod, folding my arms as a final act of Fuck You. Then I wipe salty tears from my cheeks and make myself Coco Pops and Pinot, like any good woman in control of her own destiny should.