I take a step back and look at myself head to foot in the mirror. I look…fine. Not exactly my most polished outfit ever, but fine.

Adrenaline is beating through me as I grab an evening bag and stuff my keys, mobile, and purse into it. I wrap a shawl around myself and head out the front door, my chin jutting with resolve. I’ll show them. Or I’ll catch them. Or…something. I’m not some helpless victim who’s tamely going to lie in bed while her husband’s with another woman.

I manage to catch a cab straight outside our building, and as it zooms off I sit back and practice my confrontation lines. I need to hold my head high and be sarcastic yet noble. And not burst into tears or hit Venetia.

Well, maybe I could hit Venetia. A ringing slap on her cheek, after I’ve laid into Luke.

“You’re still married, by the way,” I rehearse under my breath. “Forget something, Luke? Like your wife?”

We’re getting near now, and I feel light-headed with nerves…but I don’t care. I’m still going to do it. I’m going to be strong. As the taxi draws up, I hand a wodge of crumpled money to the driver and get out. It’s started to rain, and a cold breeze is cutting right through my chiffon kaftan. I need to get inside.

I totter over the open square toward the grand stone entrance of the Guildhall and through the heavy oak doors. Inside, the reception area is full of pale blue helium balloons in bunches, and banners reading CAMBRIDGE REUNION, and a huge pin board covered in old photographs of students. In front of me a group of four men are slapping each other on the back and exclaiming things like “I can’t believe you’re still alive, you bastard!” As I hesitate, wondering where to go, a girl in a red ball gown sitting behind a cloth-draped table smiles up at me.

“Hello! Do you have your invitation?”

“My husband has it.” I try to sound calm, like any normal guest. “He arrived earlier than me. Luke Brandon?” The girl runs a finger down her list, then stops.

“Of course!” She smiles at me. “Do go in, Mrs. Brandon.”

I follow the group of bantering guys into the great hall and accept a glass of champagne on autopilot. I’ve never been here before and I didn’t realize how huge it was. There are massive stained-glass windows and ancient stone statues, and an orchestra is playing in the gallery, amplified over the roar of chatter. People in evening dress are milling and chatting and collecting food from a buffet, and some are even dancing old-fashioned waltzes, like something out of a film. I look around, trying to spot Luke or Venetia, but the room is so busy with women in beautiful dresses, and men in black tie, and even a few particularly dashing men in tails….

And then I see them. Dancing together.

Luke was right, he does waltz as well as Fred Astaire. He’s skimming Venetia around the floor like an expert. Her skirt is twirling, and her head is thrown back as she smiles up at Luke. They’re perfectly in time with each other. The most glamorous couple in the room.

I’m rooted to the spot as I watch them, my kaftan clinging damply to my shins. All the sarcastic, feisty phrases I prepared have shriveled on my lips. I’m not sure I can breathe, let alone speak.

“Are you all right?” A waiter is addressing me, but his voice seems to be coming from miles away and his face is out of focus.

I never once waltzed with Luke. And now it’s too late.

“She’s falling!” I can feel hands grabbing at me as my legs give way beneath me. My arm bashes against something and there’s a ringing in my ears and the sound of a woman shouting “Get some water! There’s a pregnant woman here!”

And then everything goes dark.

SIXTEEN

I THOUGHT MARRIAGE was forever. I really did. I thought Luke and I would grow old and gray together. Or at least old. (I’m not intending to go gray, ever. Or wear those gross dresses with elastic waistbands.)

But we’re not going to grow old together. We’re not going to sit on benches together, or watch our grandchildren play. I’m not even going to make it past thirty with him. Our marriage has failed.

Every time I try to speak I think I’ll cry, so I’m not really speaking. Luckily there’s no one here to speak to. I’m in a private room at the Cavendish Hospital, which is where they brought me last night. If you want attention at a hospital, just arrive with a celebrity doctor in black tie. I’ve never seen so many nurses running around. First they thought I might be in labor, and then they thought I might have preeclampsia, but in the end they decided I was just a bit overtired and dehydrated. So they put me in this bed, with a saline drip. I should be going home today, after I’ve been checked out.