The only outing that I found a real challenge was item five – a dance class. Going to Ballroom for Beginners with a dance partner is one thing. Going alone, it turned out, is a different experience altogether. There were half a dozen or so couples at the class, held in Bigley village hall one Wednesday evening. There were also six women, including me, and one man. The man, and most of the women, were regulars, and he had seemingly cultivated some bizarre hierarchy that determined which women got to dance with him, and who had to partner up with the other women. He instantly started sniffing around the new girl like a tomcat, which did not go down well with the others. One woman tried to trip me up during the warm-up, and another commented on how I looked like a ‘right trollop’, and how dare I think I could ‘waltz in here and bag Liam for the tango’.

Believe me, I did not want to bag Liam for the tango. His idea of being ‘sensual’, as he patiently explained in response to my objection about his creeping fingers, was my idea of borderline sexual assault. And if that meant I had no artistic expression, then fine by me.

Still, it was another tick on the list. Seven down, only five to go.

13

‘Table for… two, madam?’ the maître d’ asked, with a polite smile, once I’d given him my name.

‘Just one, thank you,’ I replied, lifting my chin and pretending I did this sort of thing all the time.

‘Certainly, madam,’ he replied as though showing nervous women to their solo table was the sort of thing he did all the time, too. ‘A view of the garden?’

I tugged my pashmina a little tighter around my shoulders and followed him through the clinking of crystal and fine china in the dining room to the conservatory beyond. It was simply stunning. The fanciest place I’d eaten in before this was a flashy, ultra-modern hotel in London when Jonathan had sneaked me away to the West End to see The Lion King. We’d eaten to a backdrop of pounding dance music and raucous banter, and I’d been too tense to eat more than a couple of mouthfuls.

Hatherstone Hall was the epitome of serenity. The faint notes of a sonata from a grand piano mingled with the evening birdsong and gentle murmur of conversation. It was mid-July, and the air drifting through the conservatory doors was fresh and sweet, the gardens a mix of lush lawns and pretty flower beds. Everything from the paintings on the walls to the linen tablecloth and single peach rose in a vase spoke of class and elegance. I would have felt utterly out of place and horribly uncomfortable, except that each small gathering was getting on with enjoying their own meal.