He lived in a swanky chrome and white apartment near the river on the Southbank, although we spent far more time out and about than in either of our homes. His job seemed to involve a lot of networking, and long lunches, and offering to connect people with other people who knew people, but he was fun, and we had a good time, and if the conversation remained on the lighter side, the relief at being with someone else who knew the truth about me was priceless. He’d throw me secret winks at opportune moments, make cheeky comments about the food we were eating – ‘What do you think of the crab, darling?’ – and it created an intimacy between us that I’d been craving without realising it. I could almost be myself with Marcus, as long as that was London Eleanor – a few shades classier, more content and more confident than I really felt – and with him, like with Charlie, I believed I could be my best self. Or at least a better one.

I’d glided along in the bliss of considering myself a girlfriend, one of a pair, half of a whole, and had quite begun to convince myself that I loved this uncomplicated man. I even mentioned him to my parents, and started thinking about bringing him home to the Tufted Duck (although I’d have to ask for a guest room, given that Grandma was still snoring strong in my bedroom at ninety-three). I spent time with his friends, on boats, and in country houses and at D-list celebrity weddings. And if these new friends seemed to spend more time passed out, scrapping over someone’s so-called partner or crying in the toilets than they did enjoying themselves, well, who was I to judge? I felt honoured to be included.

And then, New Year’s Day, while we were eating breakfast only hours after that beautiful evening in the castle, Marcus’s phone bleeped with a message while he was chatting to a new contact on the other side of the dining room, his phone left sitting on the table between us.

It was a photograph.

In the time it took me to figure it out, several more popped up. To be honest, they would have made me feel sick even if they hadn’t featured my boyfriend. A woman was also in the photos, but it was impossible to make out her face. A written message soon followed:

Best night of my life. Hope to do it again soon xx

Marcus knew a lot of women. They often messaged him. A certain level of flirting and schmoozing, he had assured me, was part of his job. I hadn’t realised that naked gymnastics counted as flirting. The contact was saved in his phone as ‘FireStarter’.

I said nothing, downing my coffee in one mouthful, grabbing the as yet untouched cinnamon swirl from his plate and hotfooting it out of there. The psychological advantage garnered from standing at reception already checking out when he finally noticed my absence and came looking, gave me the courage to speak.