Except Tim seems distant lately, compared to how we were in India last summer. Obviously, the honeymoon period couldn’t last forever, but we haven’t even had the real honeymoon yet. I hope it’ll be better after he gets his exam results, but what if it’s not?

What would happen if I share what are probably normal doubts for a bride-to-be? Marilyn would try to persuade me to call off the engagement right now, and even if I refused, I bet she’d be straight in there at the wedding when the priest asks if there’s any reason Tim and I shouldn’t marry . . .

The thought makes me dizzy. Everything is mapped out: he’ll qualify, I’ll go to medical school, we will be the perfect doctor couple, and in five years’ time, I’ll be laughing about my silly last-minute nerves.

I work Saturday night and when I get home first thing Sunday, I climb straight into bed: I’ve been looking forward to this, to having the double bed to myself, starfishing and flinging off the covers without worrying about waking Tim, whose sleep is an elusive and delicate thing.

Tim’s away at a public health conference in Leeds, giving a talk about our Indian experience. Speaking at events will give him more kudos when he’s applying to deaneries for his foundation years. I think when I’m a medical student, I’ll aim to wow them with my clinical skills, but as Tim never stops telling me, it’s different when you have to do it for real . . .

It’s only once I’m lying in bed that I notice the envelope on the bedside table, my name written on the front in his neat handwriting. (He jokes that he loses points in exams for never mastering the spidery scrawl of a true doctor.)

Has he suddenly developed a romantic streak, leaving me a note to make up for going away? I open the envelope.

There’s no flowery card, just a folded sheet from the lined foolscap pages he used for revision notes. I unfold it. Half a page of dense writing:

Dear Kerry,

I know I’m a coward for doing it this way. More proof of why I don’t deserve you. But I thought it would give you time to get used to what I’m about to say, so when I get back from Leeds you have any questions ready for me.

I close my eyes. The marriage is off. He can’t do it. I file away the flutter of relief in my chest, even as my brain begins to list all the pre-booked arrangements I’ll have to cancel. But at least he’s told me now: we should get most of the money back.