And now, after this revelation, I need a pee.

The toilets are downstairs. I leave Naomi and head down the narrow staircase, being careful not to trip in my high heels. I’ve spent the last six months in wellies or trainers, and more recently Crocs, so I’m woefully out of practice. Feeling rather pleased with myself for managing to navigate the stairs without stumbling, I make my way across the lounge-bar. It’s a different world down here. Mood lighting. Expensive cocktails. Uber-fashionable couples. No one over thirty.

And then I see them.

Just a few feet away. Standing by the bar. A slim blonde in a minidress. A distinguished dark-haired man, his arm draped around her waist. He’s whispering something in her ear. She’s laughing and flicking back her hair. I notice the huge diamond on her finger. Watch his head turn, as he realizes someone is staring at them. See his expression when he recognizes it’s me.

It all happens in seconds.

‘Liv?’

I’m already in free-fall.

‘Hello, David.’

Eighteen months ago

There’s a basic rule when it comes to relationships: don’t snoop.

Because if you go looking for something, you’re going to find it. And more likely than not, it’s going to be something you really wished you hadn’t found.

Only I wasn’t snooping.

I was looking for something as mundane as a missing sock, when I found it tucked away at the back of the drawer. A small red box. It was nestling in David’s sock drawer. Right at the very back. Underneath several pairs of rolled-up sport socks.

Hidden.

It was the day after Valentine’s Day. Late evening. I was upstairs in our bedroom, putting away neat piles of clean laundry. We’d just got back from a weekend in Devon and I’d spent the last few hours feeding never-ending loads of dirty clothes into the washing machine and dryer. The weather forecast had said sunny, but it had poured down and everything had got filthy.

The place had been recommended on one of those glossy glamping websites. An amazing treehouse with all the trimmings, in a picturesque spot on the coast. It was going to be super-romantic: all snuggling up beside campfires on the beach, stargazing far-away constellations in clear night skies and drinking the bottle of champagne that I’d hidden in the boot.

I’d also brought along a couple of champagne flutes, which I’d wrapped up in my underwear, because I once read an article written by a French expert about how champagne doesn’t taste the same if you drink it out of plastic cups (quelle horreur!) – something about the way it affects the bubbles. And I wanted my bubbles to be perfect.

I wanted it all to be perfect.

The past few months we’d both been busy and stressed with work. Me with my new promotion as head of department; David with his partner retiring, and him having to take on their patients and restructure the dental practice. With the long hours, we’d hardly seen each other – David coming home late, me leaving early. We communicated over WhatsApp, and our conversations had lately become a list of reminders.