Ask for help? The thought sent shivers down my spine.

‘I can do that,’ I said nodding. ‘I can’t do the honeymoon, though. That’s too much. I’m still too raw.’

‘And that’s absolutely fine,’ Bri soothed. ‘Whatever you want to do, we’re here. I swear – this is not going to be your undoing. It’s going to be your becoming. We’ll make sure of it. None of us is screwing up like we think we are.’

I took the iPad to bed with me when I got home and used the browser to log into Instagram. I don’t know why I did it. Addiction, I think. Isn’t there some research that says the average person scrolls about three miles a day? That Silicon Valley design their technology to be so dangerously addictive that most of them won’t even let their kids have phones because it fries the brain? I knew looking online would upset me, but I did it anyway.

I hadn’t uploaded anything since the night before the wedding – a photo of me with Adzo and Freddie, all of us in hotel dressing gowns pulling funny faces. Underneath I’d written: Last night as a single woman, hanging with my best girls. Rereading it made my stomach do a double flip.

I went to the homepage, trembling as I typed in Alexander’s username, but he hadn’t posted since August 2016. I just wanted to make sure his new life, without me, hadn’t yet begun, I suppose. Then I scrolled my feed. Dinners, restaurant trips, date nights out with couples in their outfits and the caption: Dinner with this one, followed by a heart-eyes emoji. I wondered if everyone was as happy as they made it seem. Had I been happy, before now? I once posted a picture of Alexander and I at a fancy pizza restaurant whilst sleeping alone in our spare room. We’d argued over dinner, after the photo had been taken – I think about how to spend the Easter break. The thing is, arguments are never about the thing you’re arguing about, are they, and the fight continued after the bill had come and then all the way home.