But slowly, below it, I was cracking, like the glaze on an old jar.

I debated getting out of the cab and going home – but they’d charge me anyway in Selfridges, if I didn’t show.

The truth was I was finding it harder and harder to keep my mind straight. It would be a relief, actually, to admit I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. That parenting didn’t conform to family online calendars, vitamin supplements or workouts; that I was so close to admitting defeat.

The taxi inched forward to the front of the queue. I supposed once we were through, it would still be worth it. I couldn’t admit defeat: my military father’s motto, the one he always repeated, was No guts, no glory.

I needed to look my best. Glory was all I had left.

And these bloody emails weren’t helping. I’d had another one a few days ago.

‘Can you do a quick right here please?’ I asked impulsively as we finally pulled through the temporary lights.

Call it feminine intuition.

Lurching, the taxi took the turn past the parade, and – nothing.

Call it paranoia, thank God. I breathed in and out again deeply, just like Melissa had taught me to do at the end of a yoga session.

But as we passed the next corner, the road where the marriage counsellor lived and worked, I thought I saw—

‘Could you just…’ For a split second, leaning myself almost double to peer down the road, I contemplated asking the driver to stop.

‘All right there, love?’

I sat back. We locked eyes in his mirror. Did I see pity in his?

‘Yes, sorry.’ I sat up straighter. ‘Ignore me. Just drive on.’

It was probably my imagination anyway. There were lots of those cars around these days. And it couldn’t be him.

My email box pinged.

Can’t wait to see you at the party. I’ve so missed seeing you.

Oh God. That email address. Again.

I had wanted to sort it myself, for Marcus. I wanted it to go away, and then I was going to tell him, and it would be a fresh start for both of us: he’d be so proud of me, so grateful. I was honing myself to be the ultimate Politician’s Wife – warm, welcoming; something like the fragrant Samantha – Sam Cam – Cameron, who’d done it so well.

But actually, these messages were becoming relentless, and I was out of my depth now. I could only guess what they wanted – and none of my guesses were good. I was going to have to tell Marcus.

Ruby

The marquee had a strange, echoey, earthy feel, and a smell only tents on a humid day have; a smell that reminded me of festivals in happier days.

Crouched over an old blackboard, trying to write drink prices with a dying chalk-pen, I was a million miles away in my memories when I felt someone’s warm hand on my shoulder.