As we both fall silent, absorbed in our thoughts, I think about how people with broken hearts are all around us. I think about Valentine, with his photograph of Gisele in his pocket; of Ben’s wedding ring; of Stanley gazing up at the stars. I think about myself as a little girl crying over her mum, not knowing that when she grew up, her heart would break all over again at the loss of someone else she loved. And I realize it’s no surprise my divorce affected me so badly; it triggered all those old, buried feelings of loss that I never dealt with.

We are everywhere, and yet we hide in plain sight: the barista serving you coffee; the checkout girl at the supermarket; the man next to you on the bus – how do we ever know what’s going on in people’s lives? Who just discovered their boyfriend was cheating, or suffered a miscarriage, or was let go from their job. Or, moments ago, left the hospital after their loved one died. People whose worlds have fallen apart and are bravely carrying on.

Yet what I’m beginning to realize is that although we might feel alone, we’re not. There are more than seven billion people on this planet, and heartbreak – like love – is universal. And while each of us may be on our own individual journey, right alongside us is someone else navigating those same stages of grief and loss. It’s different, and yet it’s the same.

And if we reach out – be it by knocking on a door, or picking up a phone, or waving hello to a lonely old man in a window, or talking to a little boy too scared to come out from behind the garden gate – then our fingertips will brush against each other and we’ll make that connection. Because more and more, I’m learning that it’s only by coming together that we grow stronger; like lifting that pot of paint that was too heavy for one person, but which, together, Valentine and I carried up the stairs.

‘So tell me, is divorce any easier?’

Ben’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to him.

‘I don’t remember telling you I’m divorced.’

‘You didn’t have to. We live in a village.’ He puts on an accent far broader than his own. ‘Don’t you know, she’s from London and she’s divorced. Rumour has it she’s got a toy boy.’

‘You did not hear that!’ I gasp.

He starts laughing at my shocked expression. ‘I was joking about the toy boy. At least I think so.’ He shoots me a look.

‘Ajay isn’t my toy boy – we’re just friends.’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘I’m serious,’ I protest. ‘It’s not how it looked.’

‘M’lord,’ he adds, and I can’t help but laugh.

‘As for divorce being easier, well, my husband’s not dead, so there is that,’ I shrug, ‘but then your wife didn’t leave you because she didn’t love you any more.’