I’m excited, my stomach fluttering at the thought of what I am about to do today. No more drifting around the house with nothing to do; I’m going to follow Caro’s lead. My mouth twists a little at the thought of Caro. Rupert and I didn’t discuss the photograph again after Friday night. I don’t know where he’s put it, and I don’t want to know either. All I do know is that it isn’t on display anywhere, and on Sunday evening when I got back from Salisbury, our own wedding photo was on display in the sitting room. Still, the very fact that Caro’s picture somehow found its way onto the fireplace makes me feel unnerved, as though Caro’s ghost floats through every room in the house. I wonder briefly whether to ask Sadie or Amanda about it but push the thought away. Like Rupert said, they are my friends now, even if I do feel as though I have only a tenuous grip on the friendship. I’m just starting to feel accepted, and I don’t want to accuse them of something and potentially rock the boat. I scoop up my bag and grab my scarf, realizing as I check my watch that I’m going to be late, and that wouldn’t do, not today.

Half an hour later I am rushing along the pavement, head down and mindful of what I am about to do, when I collide with someone, losing my grip on my bag – tampons, pens and make-up tumbling out across the pavement as it hits the floor.

‘Oh, shit!’ I exclaim, as the guilty party, a man in a suit apologizes profusely before dashing away down the street without even offering to give me a hand to pick my things up. Sighing, I crouch down, biting my lip hard in frustration.

‘Em? Is that you? Are you all right?’

On hearing a familiar voice, I look up from where I am scrabbling in the gutter for my favourite mascara, aware of the soggy, blackened leaves perilously close to the hems of my designer jeans, to see Mags standing over me. ‘Oh, Mags.’ I swallow hard, suddenly caught off-guard. Mags is the last person I was expecting to see. ‘Hi. Yes, I’m fine, that… idiot just knocked me flying.’

‘Let me help you.’ Mags bends down and I am assaulted by that old familiar scent of patchouli oil and weed.

‘It’s fine, Mags, honestly,’ I say as Mags grabs the last of the detritus from the filthy pavement and slides it with a grimace into my bag. ‘I should…’

‘It’s been ages,’ Mags interrupts, ‘I haven’t seen you since you came and got your things. How was the wedding?’ Her voice is cool.