He smiled cheerfully, but she’d already turned away from him and was gazing out of the window, her hands twisting agitatedly in her lap. She had retreated into a world that he couldn’t reach. Holding the hyacinth in his hands, Valentine watched her helplessly.

‘Right, well, bye then, love. I’ll come see you tomorrow, as usual.’

It was only when he walked away that Valentine finally allowed the tears to fall. Sixty years married this summer, and he couldn’t even kiss his wife goodbye.

Online Dating

Turning on the tap, I hold the paintbrush underneath it to clean the bristles, separating them with my fingers as the water sends swirling silvery ribbons of emulsion down the plughole of the old metal sink.

It’s Sunday night. I’ve spent the whole weekend painting the front bedroom. In London we always got the decorators in. Tomasz and Basek, a local two-man team who drank gallons of sugary tea and listened to really loud, thumping house music.

Thing is, Tomasz and Basek made it look really easy, but it’s not easy at all. Before I could even start painting, I had to do all the prepping and sanding and filling in of cracks. Of which, in a three-hundred-year-old cottage, there seems to be an alarming amount. I had a survey done when I bought it, but I chose the basic one to try and save a bit of money.

‘If it’s been standing all these years, it’s not going to fall down now,’ reasoned the estate agent cheerfully.

Which will teach me to listen to estate agents.

Dumping the paintbrushes in the sink, I turn off the tap, then notice the open bottle of red wine on the side. Pouring myself a large glass, I go to put the bottle back, then change my mind and take it with me into the living room, along with a bar of my favourite dark chocolate. People talk about the Divorce Diet, but after the initial shock of discovering David’s affair had worn off, I gained weight. It’s all the comfort eating I’ve been doing. Though, frankly, I don’t know why they call it comfort-eating; all my clothes are now so uncomfortable.

Unbuttoning my jeans, I flop on the sofa. I’ve bought several of those oil heaters you can plug in, but it’s still chilly. The cottage has a centuries-old inglenook fireplace, but it takes forever to make a fire in the grate, twisting strips of newspaper and carefully stacking kindling and logs. It seems silly to go to all that effort when it’s just me. Grabbing a blanket, I pull it over my legs to keep warm and take a large sip of wine.

It feels strange to be lying on the sofa drinking Malbec on a Sunday night. Usually I’d be getting ready for Monday morning and the week ahead. The TV screen flickers animatedly in the corner, like a chatty friend who never draws breath. I’m not watching it; I have it on in the background for company. When I was married I would often find myself wishing for a bit of peace and quiet – some time alone that didn’t involve marking homework or doing laundry, or being asked ‘What’s for dinner?’ the moment I walked through the door.