But he doesn’t have a chance to tell me what he wants, because Lottie shouts from the gate to the cafe where she’s tying Toffee up. We yell back that we’re coming, and sprint, holding hands. Toffee lifts his paws in the air and scrabbles at my jeans, caught up in our excitement.

I watch Nick, my big, handsome bloke, being mercilessly teased by Lottie and I think how lucky I am. I love his integrity, his everyday courage, his way of looking at the world. He doesn’t anticipate problems like I do, he deals with them as they arrive. Faced with turbulence he becomes preternaturally calm; he prioritizes, fixes, solves. He makes me feel safe.

Then a cloud floats across the sun and I shiver. My childhood taught me that the ground can collapse beneath me without warning. It happened to me twice. I gaze at Nick’s face, and he smiles back, his eyebrows raised in query. I shrug with a grin and turn away.

Everything is fine. We are getting married. I’m happy.

Even if I don’t deserve to be.

It’s only the next morning, after everything’s fallen apart, that I remember this moment, and the odd intonation in his voice. He wanted to tell me something.

NICK

July 2000

GOD, WHAT A BUNCH OF STUCK-UP COWS. TAISIE, WHO he’s always thought of as his closest friend, and the twins, Pansy and Freya, make him feel like a second-class citizen. What is he even doing here? They arrived at about seven on Saturday evening because his dad had stuff to do earlier. They sat in traffic all along the motorway and he had to listen to his parents arguing. Jesus. Two weeks of this. His mum said it would be a fantastic opportunity for him to meet new people, get some country air and stay in a lovely house, but he’s not brain-dead. This is about his father getting two weeks of some rich guy’s undivided attention. Money, money, money.