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‘It's a shame, because if he'd asked me to stroke him instead of the dog, I might just have said yes.'

‘What did you just say?' Claire exclaims. ‘Run that past me again.'

‘You heard what I said.' I enter the leisure centre with a spring in my step. ‘Come on, let's get this over with.'

I squeeze into my joggers and slip into a sweat top, although I have no intention of getting into a sweat, unlike the two svelte ladies I meet in the changing area. The room smells of chlorine and old shoes. I join Claire in the indoor tennis court where there's a set of scales in one corner, hidden by a screen. There's a table in front, which is laden with leaflets of recipes and dietary advice, and a banner with a slimming tip of the week, which is simply, ‘Use a Smaller Plate. Eat Less!'

Dorien, the tall, slim yummy mummy who runs the club, escorts a smiling Claire from behind the screen. I don't need to ask.

‘Ah, Zara, you can be next,' Dorien says. ‘Are you a saint or a sinner? Let's find out, shall we?'

When I emerge from my turn on the scales, half afraid that Gok Wan will leap out and start pointing at my flabby bits, Claire asks me how I've done.

‘Can't you tell from the despair that's etched on my
face?' I say mournfully. ‘Two pounds this week. How about that?'

‘Well done,' she says, touching my shoulder.

‘I haven't lost it,' I explain. ‘I've put it on.'

‘Look on the bright side: the week before last you'd put on four. Never mind,' she says cheerily. ‘I've lost enough for both of us.'

‘I don't think that counts,' I say, smiling now. ‘So what? I'll always be overweight. It's in my genes.' Inside, I know the truth, though – that I don't have the motivation, whereas Claire has the strapless ivory dress with beading, lace and an embroidered train. ‘You can't afford to lose too much more. We don't want the bride to disappear altogether. Let's go to the pub.'

‘So you can drown your sorrows in a Diet Coke?'

‘Something like that.'

We head out through the leisure centre along the corridor past the pool.

‘Watch out,' Claire catches my sleeve, ‘it's Paul.' And he's coming straight towards us with a sports bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Hello,' he says, greeting us both with an extravagant embrace. ‘What are you two doing here?'

‘We've been to the gym,' Claire says quickly. ‘How about you?'

‘I'm off to do some weights.' He flexes one arm, as if to show off his bicep. ‘Any goss?'

‘Not really,' Claire says. ‘Come on, Zara.'

‘Actually, I'd like a quick word with Zara. In private.'

I glance towards Claire, who gives me an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘Two minutes.' Paul grabs my hand and takes me aside.

‘I'll meet you at reception,' Claire says.

‘She really doesn't like me, does she?' Paul says as we stand in the doorway to the pool.

‘She thinks she's protecting me.' I pause and lower my eyes. ‘I used to get upset when we met immediately after the break-up . . . Not any more. I'm kind of fine with it now,' I hasten to add. ‘What did you want to say to me that you couldn't say in front of Claire?'

Paul clears his throat. ‘There's something I want to tell you before anyone else does.'

I frown. ‘Tell me what? You can tell me anything. You know that.'

‘You're wonderful, Zara.' Paul gazes at me gently and my stomach lurches. I can't help my reaction. I don't like him all that much on occasions, but that doesn't mean I've been able to stop loving him. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we got divorced.'

You divorced me, I want to say. It was your decision. I remember him telling me our marriage was over, that he wanted out. He came home after a long shift, sat me down and talked. I remember feeling as if I was collapsing, imploding from the inside out. I was hot, burning, my throat dry. My chest was throbbing as if it was about to rupture. The more Paul spoke, the more I tried to blot out his words until I couldn't hear, couldn't comprehend what he was saying. I cried. He cried. It was one of the worst days of my life. I bite my lip. What would Gran say? Don't keep going over old ground.

‘Anyway,' Paul goes on after a pause, ‘I wanted to tell you the other day in the shop, but I couldn't quite bring myself to. The truth is I've met someone and it's pretty serious.'

‘You have a girlfriend?' The news comes as a shock to me.

‘I'm sorry.' Paul's forehead is lined with concern.

‘Why? Why apologise?'

‘Because . . .' He shrugs.

‘I'm pleased for you. Really.' It's an effort to force the words out. ‘We knew we'd both move on eventually.'

‘We?'he says.'Have you?'

I shake my head.

‘Aren't you going to ask me what she's like?'

‘I'm sure she's perfect,' I say wryly. ‘You've always had such good taste in women.'

He smiles, his male ego caressed and standing as tall as it can. He seems taller – either I've shrunk or . . .

‘Are you wearing built-up shoes?'

‘No,' he says.

‘You liar.' I chuckle before growing serious again.

‘I'm glad you're taking this so well.' Paul touches my arm. ‘I thought you might be upset.'

‘I'm fine,' I say, my voice sounding harsh. ‘I don't mind you having a girlfriend. Please don't worry about me.'

‘But I do. It's hard to stop worrying about someone when you used to be married to them.'

‘Don't I know it.'

‘Still friends?' he says.

‘I'm not sure.'

The smug expression on Paul's face is replaced by consternation.

‘What do you mean? You've just made out that you're cool with the situation. I don't see that this changes anything between us.'

‘What about your girlfriend? What would she think of us keeping in touch?'

‘She isn't the jealous type.'

‘I don't think it's a good idea,' I say, trying to make the break between us, something I've wanted, but have been too much of a coward to do in the past, knowing that if I did, I'd be devastated. However, cutting all ties, although intensely painful, seems to be the only way for me to move forward in my life. I can't bear the thought of keeping seeing him, knowing he's with someone else. ‘I wouldn't appreciate my boyfriend texting and phoning and dropping by to see his ex-wife all the time. It's quite a test for a new relationship.'

‘Actually, it isn't that new,' he confesses. ‘We've been dating for a while now.'

‘And you never said, even though we're supposed to be such friends?' I'm angry now, resentful towards him for not mentioning his love interest before, and pretty furious with myself for letting it get to me. I turn away and start heading along the corridor.

‘Where are you going?'Paul says, following.

‘Claire's waiting.'

‘I'll see you around then,' he calls after me.

‘Goodbye,' I call back.

‘What did he want?' Claire says when I catch up with her in reception. ‘Hey, are you okay?'

‘I will be,' I say, biting back tears. I tell her about the girlfriend.

‘I'm so sorry.' Claire offers me a tissue. ‘The bastard.'

‘It was bound to happen, but I didn't think it would affect me like this. I wish I could say I don't care what he's doing and with whom, but I can't.'

‘You don't want him back, do you?' Claire groans.

‘No. No way, but I still have feelings for him.' I blow my nose loudly. ‘I guess I always will.'

‘That's because you will insist on this “let's stay mates” business.'

‘I've told him I don't want to be friends any more.'

‘Oh well done.' Claire pats my shoulder. ‘If there's any time when you're tempted to change your mind about that, call me and I'll set you back on the right track.'

‘Thank you.'

‘You're bound to have moments of weakness. What you need is something, or rather some
one
special to help you move on, somebody to have fun with.'

‘That's easier said than done, but if Paul's managed it, why shouldn't I?'

‘Exactly,' Claire agrees, and we walk along the seafront in the sticky, salt-laden breeze that blows from the sea, and climb the steps to the top of the cliff. At the Talymouth Arms, we stop for drinks.

‘Who is she then?' Claire asks, her curiosity piqued. ‘What's she like?'

‘I didn't ask.' I pay for a Diet Coke and a lime and soda at the bar and follow her past a couple of tables of evening drinkers towards the rear of the pub, which has dark oak beams across the ceiling and seafaring art on the walls.

‘That's a pity,' she sighs. ‘I'd like to know who would go out with Paul after what he put you through.'

‘He isn't all bad. We weren't right for each other, simple as that.'

‘Zara, you're too nice!'

‘So how was your week?' I ask, finding seats in the corner close to the fireplace where a fresh log bums in the grate. ‘I've hardly seen you.'

‘The band's let us down, so Kev's trying to find another one – it's quite short notice and I so wanted the first one because they said they could play Eric Clapton's “In Your Father's Eyes”, which we asked for especially. I don't know what we'll do.'

‘Couldn't you have a DJ instead? Or choose a different song?'

‘Oh no. I've pictured it all in my mind and it wouldn't be right without live music. I want our first dance as a married couple to be perfect. I have found the most amazing earrings, though – they'll go with the dress, everything.' Claire smiles. ‘How about you? And I'm not asking about work.'

‘I've done a couple of shifts for Gran, that's about it.'

‘You really are going to have to get out more. When did you last go on a date?'

‘I haven't, not since I started dating Paul. You know that.'

‘Well,' she pulls her mobile from her bag, ‘in anticipation of this moment—'

‘What moment?' I interrupt.

‘Your decision to forget about your ex and move on. Emily and I have mocked up a profile for you; it's all ready to upload to one of those free-to-join websites.'

‘You haven't?' I exclaim.

‘Look.' She shows me the screen. ‘There you are.'

There's a photo of me, pinched from my Facebook page, and a whole lot of information. My personality is ‘helpful', not ‘passionate' or ‘outgoing'.

‘God, that makes me sound so boring!'

‘The interesting part is designing your perfect man. You have to type in your preferences. Internet dating's great. Everyone's doing it and I want you to find someone to be your plus one at the wedding,' Claire says. ‘The seating plan won't be right otherwise.'

‘Look, it's going to take time for me to get over Paul. I'm not ready to rush headlong into another relationship, although the idea of some light-hearted dating seems quite appealing, so I doubt very much I'm going to be able to solve your dilemma with the seating plan,' I say, amused.

‘You never know. Love moves in mysterious ways.' Claire swirls the ice cubes around in the bottom of her glass. ‘I wasn't keen on Kevin when I first met him. He kind of wore me down.'

‘That doesn't sound terribly romantic. I don't think I'd like that. If I were to go out with someone –' I almost say, Lewis, but stop myself just in time – ‘he'd have
to be funny, fit, and up for some hot and passionate . . .'

‘Sex,' Claire adds for me.

‘Thank you. I'd forgotten what it was,' I say. ‘And that is a joke, by the way.'

‘When I said Kevin wore me down, it was in the nicest possible way, all hearts and flowers, and constantly bombarding me with requests to go out with him.'

I humour her because I'm sure everyone has heard the story of how she and Kevin got together so many times that it's become legend.

‘How many times was it before you said yes?' I ask.

‘Twenty-one.'

‘Couldn't he fake a hint then?' I say, arching one eyebrow.

‘I'm glad he didn't. He kept coming into the surgery: don't you remember how we used to joke that he was a hypochondriac?'

‘Didn't he think he had a brain tumour at one time?'

‘Oh yes, and asthma, irritable bowels and shingles.' Claire giggles.

After another hour chatting, we make a move, saying goodbye outside at the leisure centre before heading off in our separate cars. Claire disappears before I set out because another of my ladies is on the phone panicking that she hasn't got enough breast milk. I reassure her, promising I'll call in to see her and the baby in the morning in advance of going to induce Celine, and then I drive home, travelling via the narrow, twisty lane at the edge of the escarpment rather than the main road, because it's a shorter distance and my needle is in the red on the fuel gauge, and I really don't want to
stop and buy petrol. It's very cold for the third week of March – minus one according to the thermometer on the dash – and darker than black, as my grandmother would say, without streetlamps or starlight.

As I begin the descent into Talyton St George, I catch sight of something at the side of the lane at the level of the bank, a pair of eyes reflecting the light from the headlamps. I slow to a stop, assuming it's a small deer or a fox about to cross, but there's something not quite right.

I pull in to take a closer look, only to find one of my least favourite animals dragging itself along on its belly and quivering with fear or cold, I'm not sure which. All I want to do is get out of here as fast as I can, but something – the look in the dog's eyes – stops me. I prepare to drive on and it slumps back into the grass, out of sight and out of mind.