A car turns the corner and swings onto the drive; full-beam headlamps make the rain look like glitter. As the driver kills the lights I see it’s Daniel. Then the passenger door opens and an Amazonian beauty with mile-long legs gets out. And not like I’d get out of a car, clumsy and grappling for my handbag and phone. No, this one does it like a model, swinging her feet around to place them firmly on the ground, her heels pushing her up even taller than I first imagined. Her hair, not remotely affected by the weather, bounces on her shoulders as she shakes herself free of the car. It’s like she stands within her own, perfect, weather system.

Fuck.

I hold on to my closed brolly. I feel even less Audrey Hepburn and more drowned rat or cat. Or Kat. I swallow hard, determined not to cry. ‘Hi,’ I say, then bite down hard on my bottom lip. ‘You forgot…’ I point to the box his mum is holding. She looks at me with pity in her eyes, which almost finishes me off. The beauty takes a few balletic steps over to the porch, kissing Daniel’s mum on the cheek. ‘Oh my God, Pam, tell me you’re doing scones. I love your scones,’ she oozes, and I think, No! I do. I love her scones. You’ve probably never even eaten a scone. She stands beside Pam, looking beautiful and skinny and very much at home.

I nod to myself. I get it. Finally, now, I get it.

‘Good to see you,’ I say to Pam. I smile at the beauty, nod in Daniel’s rough direction, then huddle my coat around me, walking away as quickly as my comparatively short-arsed legs will carry me.

Around the corner and out of earshot, I look up to the sky and hiccup a cry as I walk. I let the rain fall onto my face, grateful it disguises my tears. Then I stop for a moment to gather my strength, but start to walk again before the evening’s events completely overwhelm me. And there it is. The realisation that not only have I wasted five years of my life, but also the last six weeks. Six weeks when I should have been getting over that piece of shit and his unattainably gorgeous new girlfriend. It doesn’t even matter if there was crossover, if she did see me off. The fact is – it’s over.

I wipe away the tears, streaking mascara across my face and the back of my hand. I wipe it clean down my trouser leg, thinking that she probably doesn’t let her mascara run. Or if she did, she’d never wipe it down her leg. It’s no wonder he dumped me. I’m a hot mess. And not in a good way.

A van pulls into my side of the road, speeding through a puddle. I manage to dodge the spray of water that comes up and over the path. Not that it matters, I can’t look any worse. The van stops sharply, just up ahead. The driver cuts the engine, jumps out and slams the door.