An hour later, we’d worked our way through a large bag of tortilla chips, another glass of wine – and we had our list in Kate’s neat, rounded handwriting.

She laid out the sheets on the coffee table in front of us. ‘Interesting exercise, putting it in black and white, don’t you think?’

She waited as I stared. The pros column was substantially longer than the cons. I genuinely hadn’t expected that – especially since I’d played devil’s advocate the whole time.

‘So how’s that jumble in your head doing now?’ she asked.

‘It’s still there, only now it’s bigger and on paper.’ I sighed. ‘What if I go out there and it’s all a total disaster?’

Kate put a hand on my arm. ‘Crikey, it’s not a life sentence, Emmy. Nobody’s buying you a one-way ferry ticket and forbidding you re-entry! You could try it, and if it didn’t work out, you could come back.’

‘Except then I’d be a lot worse off.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘What, after giving up a good job and turning down a promotion?’

Kate shook her head. ‘You’d just have to play on your time abroad as a valuable step in your career.’

‘Yeah, right. So when I’m at an interview and they ask what I’ve been doing for the past... year, say, what am I supposed to answer? That I’ve been making beds and stabbing around in the dark trying and failing to set up a business?’

‘You tell them the truth – that you took up the opportunity to manage a different kind of enterprise and to widen your experience of marketing on the continent, allowing you to add to your skills whilst reassessing your priorities and career.’

‘God, Kate, you talk shit sometimes.’

‘Ha! You’re the one in marketing, not me!’

Nathan finally got in touch. In person. He didn’t even ring the doorbell, the cheeky sod – just used his key, as though he had every right in the world to invade my space.

I’d sloughed off my work day in the shower, allowing extra time and posher products because it was Friday, and I’d just pulled on old trackies and a sweatshirt when I heard the noise. I assumed it must be burglars, and my heart started thumping in my chest so hard I thought I might have a heart attack.

In a panic, I raked my eyes over the junk corner of the bedroom for a weapon. Nathan’s bowling ball looked too heavy and unwieldy, and I didn’t think the semi-deflated exercise ball would cut it. Grabbing my old hockey stick, I crept down the hall and sprang into the lounge wielding my weapon of choice.

Nathan threw his hands defensively over his head. ‘Emmy, it’s only me! There’s no need for violence!’

He looked so pathetic that fear gave way to amusement, and I started to laugh.

‘I don’t see what’s so damned funny. You could have hit me!’

For a brief moment, I struggled to put on a straight face more suited to the occasion, but then it dawned on me that after weeks of no contact other than one curt note, he’d let himself in without phoning or even ringing the bell. Suddenly, that straight face wasn’t so hard to find.

‘You should have phoned first. How was I supposed to know you weren’t some intruder?’ That was exactly how I felt about him. An intruder.

‘I shouldn’t have to phone first.’ His chin set in that stubborn pose he had. I used to think it was cute. Now, I couldn’t for the life of me remember why.

‘Of course you should, you arrogant bastard! I can’t believe you let yourself in here like that!’

Nathan looked taken aback. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’ He held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Okay, I could have phoned first. But it’s my flat, too. I have every right to be here.’

‘You have a right to be here? What right? Are you referring to legal or moral right? Because you relinquished all moral right to waltz in and out of here the day you drove off with Gloria. You left me high and dry. I had to look after an invalid and run his business for him, I had Mum and Dad flying over to find out what the hell was going on thanks to your interfering mother, and I had to make Carl furious by staying out there an extra week. That was how I spent my holiday, Nathan.’

‘You didn’t have to look after Rupert, Em. I don’t see how you can blame me for that – it was your choice.’

Absolutely incredible.

‘Did you honestly think I could walk away from a mess like that when it was my own boyfriend who caused it? You took away Rupert’s wife when he needed her most, so yes, you were to blame, and no, I didn’t have a choice, not being a selfish, heartless bastard like you!’

This was exhausting. I wanted to stop shouting now. My throat was sore.

‘Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge,’ I said flatly, all anger spent. ‘You went. I stayed. And it wasn’t so bad, after all.’

‘Oh? You and old Rupert became a bit of an item, did you?’ His face had the edge of an ugly sneer about it.

It made me sick to the stomach. ‘No, Nathan, we didn’t. We became friends. There’s a world of difference.’

‘Friends, my arse. You can’t tell me you spent all that time out there washing his socks and helping him to his bedroom without...’

‘Shut up, Nathan.’

I couldn’t stand this conversation any longer. I wanted it to end. I slapped his face.

The sound reverberated in the room. Nathan’s eyes were wide with shock. So were mine.

He rubbed at the ugly red marks on his cheek. ‘What the hell was that for?’

I felt sick. Sick at the marks, sick at my behaviour, sick at what we’d been reduced to.

‘If you have to ask, then we have nothing more to say to each other.’

It was a prime exit line. All he had to do was take the lead and walk out.

‘How about a cup of tea?’ he asked instead.

I stared at him in disbelief. ‘A cup of tea?’

He walked into the kitchen, put the kettle on, reached into the cupboard for the teabags and pulled the milk from the fridge, for all the world as though he’d never been away.

I watched him from the doorway. ‘I don’t want tea, Nathan. I want you to leave.’

He looked at me, his brow furrowing, then his expression cleared. ‘You’ve had your hair cut. It’s nice.’

It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so damned annoying. All the time we’d been a couple, I could count the number of times he’d commented on a new outfit or hairstyle on the fingers of one hand. I desperately wanted to point out the irony, but I couldn’t see what purpose it would serve other than provoking another shouting match, so I settled for a weak, ‘Thanks.’

Nathan handed me a mug, walked back into the lounge and settled himself on the sofa. Left with no option, I followed him, perching on the edge of the designer reading chair neither of us read in because it was so uncomfortable. I noticed his hands were shaking a little.

‘I deserved the slap,’ he said quietly. ‘For what happened in France and for running away instead of facing up to what was going on between us.’

Fazed by this sudden change of direction and his seemingly sincere contrition, I waited with a kind of detached curiosity for what would come next.

‘I didn’t come here to have a row, Emmy.’

‘Then what did you come here for?’

‘To apologise. I know I haven’t gone about things the right way.’

Talk about an understatement! I sipped my tea. It was too hot and burned my tongue. He hadn’t put enough milk in. Three cups of tea a day for five years, and he still didn’t know how much milk I liked.

‘I know I behaved badly, but it takes two for things to go wrong,’ he said. ‘If we’re going to work through this, we need to try and meet in the middle somewhere.’

‘What?’ I stared at him, open-mouthed, not sure I could have heard right.

‘I said we need to find a way to work through this together. I’ve told you I’m sorry. Can’t we move on?’

‘You’re saying you want to come back?’

‘Yes.’ There was a sureness, a cockiness in the one syllable. Not “if you’ll have me” or “if that’s what you want”. Just a resounding “yes”.

I hardly trusted myself to speak. ‘So what you’re saying is: you’ve been unhappy with our relationship for quite some time but didn’t think to speak to me about it, you’ve slept with another woman, you’ve left me, you’ve not been in touch, you’ve changed jobs and moved cities, and now you want to come back. Just like that.’

A sulky look passed over his eyes and I watched with interest as he fought to control it. Nathan never liked having his shortcomings pointed out.

‘No, not just like that. Of course I understand things are less than perfect, but we could still make a go of it.’

‘And what about London?’ I choked out. ‘Your new job?’

He winced. ‘I’ll get something nearer as soon as I can. To be honest, I’m not enjoying it down there anyway.’

Ah, now we were getting down to it. It seemed the grass wasn’t greener after all. Talking of which...

‘What about Gloria?’ I asked him.

He jolted and put his tea on the table, out of harm’s way. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, Nathan, what about Gloria? The woman you left me for?’

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I didn’t leave you for her, Emmy. I left with her. There’s a difference.’

‘There is?’

‘Of course there is. You and I were unhappy, Gloria and Rupert were unhappy, and after we’d... Well, it seemed sensible to go together. I didn’t promise her anything.’

‘But she got you your new job. That would suggest to me that you’re more than a momentary convenience for each other. Or is the convenience all on your side and not hers?’

‘How do you know she got me the job?’

‘Come on, Nathan, ours is a pretty small world. Word gets around.’ I shook my head. ‘You’ve burned a lot of bridges. They’ll never take you back at our place, and your new company won’t give you a reference after just a few weeks. How do you expect to get another job up here?’

His shoulders sagged for a moment, then he straightened. ‘I’ll have to commute until I’ve been there long enough to get a reference. Or I’ll lean on Derek. He owes me a favour or two. It’ll work out, Emmy. I’ll do whatever it takes.’

For a moment, I was impressed by his determination. He must want to come back, to give up a prime job in the capital. The burning question was: did he want to come back because he loved me? Or because his new job and his new life and his new woman weren’t all he’d expected, and I was the comfortable option, the safer bet?

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I said quietly.

‘Question? What question?’

‘About Gloria. I presume you’re living with her.’

‘Sort of. They have that flat in Kensington, so I moved in while I got settled. It wasn’t meant to be permanent.’

I couldn’t believe their cheek, using Rupert’s flat as their love nest. ‘So you’re still there?’

‘For now.’

‘I see. And does Gloria know it isn’t meant to be permanent?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, Nathan, does Gloria know you’ve come up here to see me? That you want to come back? To work. To be with me.’

He fiddled with a stray thread on a cushion, winding it around his fingers and letting it spring back.

‘No. I didn’t want to upset her. She’s been very supportive, sharing the flat and helping me with the job. I thought it would be better to tell her once you and I sorted ourselves out.’

I shook my head with something bordering on despair. ‘My God, talk about hedging your bets! You went off with Gloria, gave her the impression you two were together, allowed her to pull strings to find you a job – and now you’ve come up here to ask me to take you back without even telling her? You didn’t split up with her first?’

‘No, because...’

‘Because, Nathan, you want to come back here where it’s nice and easy and safe, but if I say no, you can still go back to Gloria, pretend nothing has happened and make a go of it with the runner-up.’ I laughed, but the sound came out harsh and cold. ‘I can’t believe I actually feel sorry for her! And I can’t believe how little you’re committed to making our relationship work.’

‘I do want it to work,’ he whined. ‘I want to make a go of it. I love you.’

A cold, hollow feeling flooded my veins. All those months before the holiday when I wished he would tell me that more often, to reassure me that things weren’t going sour. The nights in France after his betrayal, when I would have given anything to hear the words.

But no. He had to say them when I least expected or wanted it. I thought back to our early days when he’d told me he loved me all the time, and I felt so sad. Did he mean it now? Or did he just think he did?

The mug I’d forgotten I was holding slipped through my fingers and clattered to the floor. I watched as the steaming liquid spread across the laminate, the broken handle lying forlornly on its own in the puddle, the mug still rolling.

Nathan jumped up, fetched a towel from the kitchen and started to mop up the mess.

My lips felt numb, glued together, so I spoke through my teeth, forcing the words out. ‘Why don’t you leave it, Nathan?’

He looked up from where he knelt. ‘What?’

‘This mess. Just leave it alone.’

‘I can manage. It’s nearly done. What’s the matter with you, Emmy? Haven’t you got anything to say? I’m talking about our future.’

I looked at the man I’d once loved. ‘So am I, Nathan. So am I.’

The next morning, I’d hoped for a lie-in, but when I realised that wasn’t going to happen, I headed blearily to the kitchen to make an espresso. While the water hissed its way through the life-saving grains, I fired up my laptop at the kitchen table.

Dad was right – it was time Nathan and I got the flat sorted out, and since last night’s conversation had gone so spectacularly pear-shaped, I figured an e-mail was the safest way to broach the subject.

Clutching my coffee, I logged on to find an e-mail from Rupert. The subject line read: Emmy’s Future.

I almost dropped my coffee in surprise, cursing as the strong black liquid sloshed onto my white robe. Dabbing ineffectually at the stain, I opened the e-mail.

How well he knew me. Yes, I was, Rupert, but I’ve just chucked it all over myself.

Interesting. Those were pretty much the same words I would have used to describe my own life at the moment.

I bet you have.

I stopped battering my foot against the laminate.

I snorted, and the coffee I was sipping went up my nose, making me choke. Rupert was many things. Humble wasn’t one of them.

I thought I did, Rupert. Now I’m not so sure.

Frowning, I opened the attachment. Reams of figures blurred in front of my eyes. Ugh. This was going to take some time. I made toast and another coffee, then settled down to work out what the old fool was playing at.

It soon became clear that this was Rupert’s ultimate gambit to get what he wanted.

He started with my incomings, outgoings and assets as he understood them. I logged on to banks and building societies to verify, entering my more accurate figures next to his.

Next, he dealt with the likely rent from the flat, confirming it would cover our mortgage and maintenance costs.

The following section concerned what would happen if I moved to France. I looked at the figure he was offering to pay me and almost laughed at how low it seemed compared with my current salary, but only for a moment. With no mortgage, rent or bills, and only my own living expenses and a small car to run, it wasn’t too far from my current disposable income – a fact which surprised me.

The final part concerned setting up my own business. He didn’t presume to tell me what sort of business, but he had asked all his friends what rates they paid for various services they already used relating to their property, and what other services they might be willing to pay for. Did they have a website and who maintained it? If not, would they like one? Did they use an agency to advertise, and were they happy with it? (Not always, it seemed.) He hadn’t stinted on the possibilities and permutations, even though it was all speculative at best.

I realised he must have spent hours on this.

With my shoulders stiff from hunching over the laptop, I dragged my aching bones to the bathroom, ran a deep, hot bath and sank into it, my head filled with figures and projections and possibilities. It was hard not to be influenced by them. Rupert could be convincing with his verbal skills alone – add in hard evidence, and it was damned near impossible not to be drawn into his way of thinking.

It was clear I would be busy helping Rupert from spring through to autumn. The problem was the winter months.

And yet a quiet voice in my head told me to use my imagination. I could use those months to build up my own business. I remembered what Nick said about freelancing. If I was kicking my heels in the off-season, I could look at taking on proper contracts from the UK. Everything was done online nowadays.

The hot bath and the thoughts spinning in my head made me feel slightly sick, so I gave it up as a bad job, made a huge mug of tea, sat back at my laptop and e-mailed Nathan, laying out the arguments for renting rather than selling and even cribbing some of Rupert’s wording and figures.

Wondering if the temperature I seemed to have developed was induced by the bath, I walked back into the lounge and decided there was no harm in getting a few things done. If I was going to contact letting agents, the place needed to look its best.

Slowly and methodically, I cleaned the flat to within an inch of its dreary life, cleared out cupboards (my stuff and joint stuff only – Nathan could sort his own crap out), and decluttered what little clutter there was.

Sorting through the magazine rack – God, did Nathan ever read those nerdy tech magazines he insisted on subscribing to? – I came across last year’s batch of holiday brochures and gave a snort. A fat lot of use they’d been! I could only presume the brochure for the Seychelles had been wishful thinking on my part, and the one for golfing holidays in Portugal hidden at the bottom was something Nathan might have been planning without me.

A glossy cottage brochure caught my eye, and I flicked through it. My marketing eyebrow raised in approval. These people certainly knew how to take a photo and write a blurb. Every single cottage came across as a paradise. With professional curiosity, I turned to the front, where they declared themselves specialists in their region of England, offering both homeowners and holidaymakers a service above and beyond. I thought about what Rupert had said in his e-mail about agencies. What I’d said to him at the café about advertising with someone more specialised. Hmmm... Interesting.

The rest of the brochures went in the recycling bin. That one didn’t. It accompanied me to my laptop, where I ate a sandwich whilst composing a thoroughly cheeky e-mail asking if they would be willing to chat to me sometime about how and why they set up their agency and whether they would share some of the nitty-gritty, hastily adding that I had no intention of treading on their toes, or even in the same country.

When I’d finally finished with the flat, I realised I hadn’t been listening to what my body was telling me – or more accurately, screeching at me: that I was really ill. When I stood still long enough to realise I might fall down, I just had time to stagger to the bedroom before nausea and dizziness kicked in with a vengeance, and a headache joined in the fun.

Alternately piling covers on for the shivers and throwing them off for the sweats, I made my way through a restless evening and miserable night, to the accompaniment of cymbals clashing in my head.