There’s a second where I exhale, and I feel so dizzy that it’s as if I’m a balloon that’s just been untied, and I can see myself whizzing round in circles, high above the Piazza San Marco, all the air flying out of me until I collapse back down, completely deflated, in my chair. Sitting opposite James – charming, nice, Golden Retriever James, with his big chocolate button eyes and his helpful, kindly nature, and his broad dependable shoulders and his good job. I look at him, and feel my shoulders sag with relief and guilt and a million other things I can’t put a name on.

‘I can’t,’ I say eventually.

‘What do you mean, you can’t? Have you signed another lease?’ He looks at me, and I feel like I just kicked a puppy. But it’s really just hit me. I’m thirty, and life is happening all around me. And I can’t spend any more of it doing what looks like the right thing just to keep some imaginary observer happy. I’ve only got one life and I want to start living it, now.

‘No,’ I say, and I feel a bit sad, but not so sad I’d spend the rest of my life with someone who is nice enough, but not enough. ‘I just . . . can’t.’

The journey home is pretty hideous. James sits beside me, drinking gin and tonic and studiously reading the in-flight magazine and not saying much. I try to make things better by making stupid, pointless observations, and being extra lovely to the cabin crew, as if somehow that’ll make up for the fact that I’ve just dumped James in the most romantic city in the world because I want . . .

What is it that I want?

We fly over London, the lights illuminating the darkness like a million tiny sparkles, and when we pass through passport control James turns to me, shouldering his bag, and says stiffly, ‘I think maybe we could leave it from here?’

And I nod.

He strides off, his long legs eating up the floor of the airport, and I make my way back towards the station, and the tube, and home to Albany Road.

My phone buzzes with notifications as I get off the tube and the Wi-Fi connects. A million messages from work friends and Sophie and Gen, asking if I’ve had a gorgeous time, updating me on what’s been going on, telling me they can’t wait to hear all about it.

And there’s a message from Becky, sent to the house group chat, calling for a team meeting.

When I walk into Albany Road there’s a really weird, hushed atmosphere. Everyone – apart from Rob, who’s (predictably) working – is sitting round the kitchen table, drinking coffee or tea. They look up at me expectantly.

‘Nice time?’ Alex says, first.