Meanwhile...

I’m having a coffee on the patio enjoying a rare moment where everything around me is calm and uncomplicated when I get a call from Charlie.

‘It’ll be a dinner party or a barbecue depending on the weather. I prefer dinner but his lordship likes to get out the tongs,’ he says, inviting me round to his house.

I hope dinner, too. When you sit down there’s less chance of a disaster with the ketchup bottle or any condiments for that matter. I tell Charlie this and he’s horrified.

‘Let me reassure you that if we’re sitting down, there will be NO chance of a disaster with ketchup; what on earth do you take me for?’

I won’t bring the circus with me; I’ll invite Ed as my plus one and have a sophisticated adult evening. What a blissful thought.

Most of my dates with Ed have been on the back of a bike or casual affairs to ensure no one gets the wrong impression, but tonight, I want to dial it up a little: look fantastic and see where it goes. I might even go shopping and buy something to flash a bit of leg for a change; they’ve a slight tan so it won’t be too traumatising.

With the day planned, I leap into action. I whip my T-shirt off, use it as a duster to flick over the house and then stuff it in the washing basket. Next it’s a shower and presentable clothes (so that I’m given good service in the shops) and a bottle of wine plonked in the fridge just in case things do go well later.

Sorted. It’s amazing how much you can get done in ten minutes if you try.

Today there will be no torture, no plucking or waxing just nurture and indulgence. I head for the nail bar to have a wonderful hand massage and manicure; my nails are painted Petticoat Lane Pink and my hands made so soft you would simply purr if I stroked your skin. Add a summery shift dress and nude sling-backs and I look like the type of dinner guest you would invite back. I won’t be mistaken for a hooker tonight.

On the way down in the lift, a woman keeps taking sideways glances at me, which is annoying as I want to take sideways glances at myself and I can’t if she’s looking. I’m trying to work out whether my boobs could do with a bra that’s a little more ‘up and at ’em’.

‘I thought it was you,’ she eventually says with a broad smile, ‘you came out with the The Chapter a few weeks back.’

Without the leather jacket and helmet most of them are unrecognisable, but I smile anyway and say, ‘Yes, I remember now – we both look a bit different today.’

‘I’m buying holiday clothes; we’re off to the south of France next weekend. I can’t wait,’ she explains.

‘Oh you’ll love it, I was there last week. It’s simply gorgeous,’ I reply politely.

The lift reaches the ground floor and we head out.

‘But I’m still taking a warm jacket,’ she continues as we part company. ‘I hear out there, it’s colder than here.’

I wave a goodbye and smile thinking, ‘I wonder who spread that vicious rumour.’

Ed picks me up and we head off to dinner; he’s made the effort too and together we look like the catalogue models you see in Sunday supplements. They’re a wee bit older than us but proud of their little laughter lines and salt ’n’ pepper hair; they’re fit and active, advertising vitamins or golfing shoes.

I was once told that no matter what age you’re advertising to you should use a model ten years younger. So if you’re advertising to sixty-year-olds, use a fifty-year-old model. No one wants to relate to someone their own age.

Armed with a bottle of wine that is appropriately expensive for an evening with sophisticated adults, we arrive to lots of hugs and kisses from our hosts. I’m dying to see if Peter has made any changes to the place.

‘There’s something,’ I deduce as Charlie hands me a glass, ‘but I can’t work out what it is; it’s subtle.’

The array of manuals and guide books are still there but...

‘Got it. He’s rearranged your books.’ I go over to the shelves. ‘They’re not alphabetical or in size order. What is it?’ I ask.

‘They’re in the order that we’re going to do them,’ he exclaims brushing his hand along the tomes. ‘Scuba diving first to climbing Everest never. ‘We’ve called it our compatibility shelf. If we can get past building a flat-pack table together then we’re bonded for life.’

‘And if you can’t you might be bonded with glue anyway,’ I jest.

‘Brilliant idea,’ pipes up Ed. ‘I’d put something like “assisting a tyre change” as my compatibility challenge.’

‘I’d have “surviving a weekend with my mother”,’ I add.

There’s a sharp intake of breath as Charlie says, ‘Oh, you’re going to be single for a VERY long time girlfriend.’

Another couple arrive; they’re friends of Peter’s and members of the local Round Table. This is Charlie’s magic wand dream: hosting a dinner party with the love of his life and becoming a pillar of the community. Is it really as simple as making a wish?

The evening goes well without any of the usual chaos that seems to infiltrate my life with alarming regularity. There’s a brief recap of the baking competition where I gloat when Peter tells everyone that my daughter won and grimace as Charlie tells everyone, ‘And then her arch enemy presents the exact same cakes Angie made in the trial run. They looked a lot better made by a pro but how did she know? Spooky.’

‘It’s not spooky at all, we have a toerag ex-husband in common,’ I say.

Ed looks uncomfortable with talk of Alan so changes the subject and I’m relieved that he does. I’m happy to let them talk problem motorways and brake horsepower all night and have no part in it. I just relax listening to the hum of happy voices.

Later, Ed walks me home and I try to remember whether I left the box to the super-support knickers I’m wearing lying on the bathroom floor.

I open the door and send him through to the kitchen while I ‘freshen up’; fortunately there is nothing incriminating lying around. I do a quick knicker change, swapping from all-night support into something that says, ‘This is my normal underwear, I wear sexy but classy every day you lucky man.’

It’s amazing just how much a pair of smalls can say.

When I get back to the living room he has poured us each a glass and is sitting on the sofa. I join him, snuggling up against him, the sitting equivalent of spoons. He puts his arm around me and pulls me closer, I respond by lightly stroking his leg. It’s far easier to be tactile in this position as you don’t have to make eye contact.

He kisses the top of my head and then his lips move down to my ear lobes. I turn towards him so that we can get mouth to mouth. It’s a long time since I felt a spark from just kissing, but I’m feeling it now as little fireworks go off throughout my body. I have no idea whether I’m supposed to initiate things or let him, but I raise my hand to his chest and let my fingertips caress the hairs under his shirt. He runs his hand down my side tickling me with delight as he does. His hand rests at my breasts and a full Catherine wheel starts to fizz away. I am desperately trying not to overthink this and go with the flow but at some point the flow will realise that I’m wearing a shift dress with a side zip and the sofa is no place to remove said item with any grace or allure at all. We have to commit, so I take a sip and say it:

‘Shall we move this upstairs?’

He takes his own sip for courage and follows me as I lead him into the bedroom. We kiss further and then I take a step backwards and start undoing my zip, planning on my dress falling to the floor just as they do in movies.

I’m expecting a reciprocal unbuttoning of shirt but it doesn’t happen, he’s just staring at me. For a brief moment I’m convinced that he’s simply taking in my mesmerising beauty but then he says the words no one wants to hear, particularly while nearly in your undies.

‘Wait, there’s something I have to tell you.’

Married? Dying? Transgender? Which will I put up with and which is a no-go? Panic rises and I stop the unzipping.

‘It was me,’ he continues. ‘I gave Amanda your idea.’

‘What?’ Distance is now no object as I push past him and grab my bathrobe tying it over my dress like terry-towelling armour.

‘Hear me out.’ He raises both hands as if I’m about punch him and I just might.

‘She’s my cousin and I didn’t know Alan was your ex; you’ve never mentioned him by name and even if you had, you’ve got different surnames. I didn’t know,’ he pleads.

My brain is riffling through its filing cabinet trying to work out whether this is true. Have I ever mentioned his name? Does it matter?

‘When she said she needed a theme, I told her my friend’s idea and that you weren’t entering it. You weren’t, you told me,’ he continues. ‘I promise I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

I plonk myself down on the bed and he sits down beside me. It’s funny but everyone says that they just want a man to be honest with them and here I am sitting with someone who has been more honest than my husband ever was and all I can think is that I wish he’d lied; I wish he’d never said all of that.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers kissing me on top of the head.

I nod because I know that he is, but I’m not sure what to say.

‘I need time to think,’ I tell him and he gets up to leave.

I stay seated as I listen to his steps traipse down the stairs and then out of the door. I lie back and pull the duvet around me. Socks jumps up and snuggles into my feet as if telling me that I don’t need anyone else.

I’m so numb I can’t even cry myself to sleep tonight.