I shrug on my coat and wink at Becky on my way out, who sticks out her tongue, envious of my unexpected break. I’ve decided to go for a walk; I could do with a change of scenery. Something to shake off this anxiety brewing in my gut. It’s not just about Madeline, it’s also about the upcoming anniversary party and all the old memories it’s throwing up. As I leave the salon, stepping out into the wintry air, I remember how ill I felt on my wedding day. How unsettled and queasy. That strange fuzziness in my head. It’s odd, but whenever I think about that time, the fuzziness returns. Like my head is stuffed with marshmallows. I hope this party isn’t going to be a case of history repeating itself.

I leave the high street and turn onto Park Walk, an elegant walkway that runs alongside the ninth-century abbey wall. Bare-branched silver birches and sycamores sway alongside old-fashioned street lamps and an abundance of wooden benches are perfectly placed to take in the misty view of the Blackmore Vale. While it’s busy in town, there are only a handful of people up here – joggers, dog walkers and a couple of families who look like tourists. During the summer months, it can get pretty crowded, so despite the freezing temperatures, I much prefer this time of year when there’s space to breathe and I can stare uninterrupted out across the countryside.

My favourite bench is free, so I quickly head on over to claim it, running my fingers over the brass plaque before sitting down. It’s situated almost at the far end of the walk, past the war memorial. The reason it’s my favourite bench is that it’s dedicated to my mother. I used to get annoyed if I came here and someone else was sitting on it. But now I’ve come to like the fact that strangers are looking out over the same view that Mum once enjoyed. That they’ll read the inscription on the plaque and wonder about who she was, and what she was like. Getting Mum’s bench inscribed was probably the last beautiful thing my dad ever did.

The other reason I love this bench is that during the winter, when there are no leaves on the trees, I can make out my house from here. It’s easy to spot because its facade has been rendered and painted white, while all the other houses are grey stone. I can even see its splash-of-red front door. I like looking at it. Knowing that’s the place where my family and I live. Where our children are being raised. Where we’re creating shared memories.