We totter en masse along the Embankment, clutching each other’s arms, heads down against the wind. The lilac-grey clouds look as if they’re taking part in a Formula One race across the sky. I keep an eye on the brisk, gusting breeze as it tries to whip a cappuccino froth onto the Thames and then we duck into one of the side streets to our favourite little restaurant for moments of celebration. Every excuse and we’re down here—birthdays, anniversaries, moving to unsuitable jobs, life-changing announcements. It’s a Spanish restaurant with a deeply unoriginal name—Pueblo—and it serves great tapas and a wonderful creamy, fragrant soup made of garlic and bread. I’ve tried numerous times to make it at home, but it doesn’t taste wonderful, it tastes remarkably like garlic and soggy bread. The restaurant only has half a dozen tables, so I’ve no idea how it manages to keep going in this part of London. We squeeze into our special place in the corner, just by the window. Whenever I think of leaving, it’s the views out of windows that I’ll miss the most. Does this mean I spend most of my time staring out of them watching as life passes me by? Monica goes into ultra-efficient mode and rattles off a list of tapas to tempt us, while I sit and look at the grey people, in grey coats, heads tucked down like tortoises as they plod along, shoulders hunched against the elements. People don’t walk like this in hot countries, do they? They swing along, heads high, shoulders back, embracing the sun. They whiz around on inline skates and bikes and skateboards and generally look as if they’re having a lot of fun. Today the wind feels strong enough to turn your eyeballs inside out.

Pedro, the lovely swarthy Spanish waiter who has a look of Antonio Banderas—particularly after a drink or two—brings us a bottle of wine, which means that no work will be done this afternoon. And do I care? I do not.

‘Are you looking forward to next week?’ Charlotte ventures.

‘Yes.’ I can quite categorically state that I am.

‘I don’t want you to leave My Baby,’ Charlotte says as Monica plays mother with the wine bottle. ‘But I think a change will do you good.’

‘So do I.’ I raise my glass and take a swig.

Pedro arrives balancing a tray full of tiny terracotta dishes that are giving off delicious wafts of heavenly smells. I do think for the first time since Jake left that my appetite has come back and a smile spreads across my face.

‘What are you grinning at?’ Monica says, diving into one of the dishes before poor Pedro can get it anywhere near the table.