‘Bye, Liv.’

‘Bye.’

It was only ever about Us.

Of course the composure lasted only for the two minutes it took to find the ladies’ loos and lock myself in a cubicle. At which point I burst into tears. I’m not sure how long I sat there, bewildered and blindsided by emotions I thought I’d dealt with months ago. But after a while I knew I had to pull myself together. I had a birthday party to go to. A best friend’s engagement to celebrate. I couldn’t sit there all night, sobbing and blowing my nose into the loo roll, feeling sorry for myself.

So I splashed cold water on my face, reapplied my make-up and I braced myself to go back outside. But David had gone, they must have left; and I went back upstairs like nothing had ever happened. And, really, what had happened? I’d just bumped into my ex-husband and his new girlfriend. Correction: fiancée. So what? It happens all the time. He’d moved on. I’d moved on. Hadn’t I?

And that’s what’s floored me. I thought I was over it. All those stages of grief and loss they talk about in the self-help books – I’d pushed, stridden and dragged myself through them. Shock, disbelief, anger, depression, fear, hopelessness: the whole sorry mess. I’d waded through them all, done all the things they tell you to and had finally come out the other side.

Now, David is no longer the last thing I think about when I go to sleep, or the first thing when I wake up. In fact, the truth is, I haven’t thought of him for months. It was deliberate at first, but now I can go days – even weeks – without thinking about our marriage. And when I do, it’s only fleeting, some little reminder of my old life that’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

But now it feels like I’m right back where I started. Which is as much of a shock as it is confusing. Why do I feel so upset? We’re divorced; what does it matter if David’s getting married again? Why do I care? Does it mean I’m not over it? That I still miss him?

That I’m still in love with him?

I catch a taxi home from the station. Earlier Ben had texted to offer to pick me up, but it was Stanley’s bedtime, so I’d said thanks, but I was fine. Fine. That word should come with a warning. Even as I texted my reply I wondered how many people who used it actually were. Plus Ben would want to know all about my trip to London – ask for details of the party; I wasn’t ready to put the brave face back on just yet.

I get the taxi to drop me outside Valentine’s, so I can pick up Harry. If there’s one face I do want to see right now, it’s his. But when I knock on the door there’s no answer, and it’s then I remember that Sunday night is quiz night. Sure enough, I find them both at the pub. Valentine is sitting with the Three Degrees and, hearing my voice, Harry dives out from underneath the table, sending pints flying and tangling his lead around everyone’s legs. It’s quite some greeting, especially as they were in the middle of the bonus-points cryptogram round.