Four years, and it ended like this. Her mind raced, a volley of memories coming back to her in painful, disordered snapshots. Their first date at a bar in the Merchant City, that flutter in her guts when she saw him standing at the bar. Dividing and conquering in the kitchen: he chopping, she cooking. The first time they said ‘I love you’. A Hogmanay party, maybe three years ago, their long, searching kiss at midnight. Their most recent holiday to Tuscany, holding hands over a candlelit table, only four months ago. How could he have been feeling this way and not told her? It was like she’d woken up in another world, and she was reeling too hard to make sense of anything.

They never even fought, not really, not like she knew plenty of other couples did. There was the occasional sulk, a peevish comment here or there. But no rows: they saw eye to eye on everything, from the big stuff (‘values’) to the small stuff (sweetcorn on pizza = no). Had there been signs? Had she simply ignored them? He had been quiet, solemn recently, and she had remarked on it once or twice. It was maybe last weekend, or the weekend before, when they were coming out of the Underground at Hillhead, and he’d looked so lost in thought that she’d asked him more than once if he was OK. And he’d just muttered something. She supposed they hadn’t spent as much time together recently. There had been a few Fridays and Saturdays when he’d made his excuses, and she’d ended up with Paddy and their lot. But that was normal, wasn't it? After four years, wasn't that the point; you were comfortable, settled, liberated to see you friends, safe and secure in the knowledge that your relationship would carry on, untroubled?

Clearly not. It smarted, more than anything, to imagine he’d been thinking about this for a while. ‘It’s been on my mind for a while’, was what he’d said, gravely, staring through the windscreen. She’d remember the words forever. It was all so utterly humiliating. Did all his friends know? Had he told them all about how he couldn’t wait to dump her? Cringing, Anya thought about how many times she’d imagined their wedding.

Suddenly, Paddy issued a firecracker of a snore and rolled on to his side, tugging most of the duvet with him. Anya tugged weakly at it and managed to regain a little covering, and then continued to stare miserably at the ceiling until dawn.

The second calamity swiftly followed.