‘Jackpot,’ she smiles.

‘Exactly,’ I confirm, and I can’t help it – I actually clap my hands.

I luxuriate in the memories and Issie is bathing in possibility.

‘Did you know we’d end up here?’ I’d asked. He dribbled champagne (house, but who cares) into my mouth from his, silencing me momentarily.

‘I didn’t absolutely know.’ Mischievous.

‘But you expected it?’ Disgruntled.

He moved his lips from mine and attached them to my nipple, whilst he poured more champagne into my tummy button. He inched towards the alcohol lake, kissing and caressing my shoulder, my collarbone, my waist. He lapped up the champagne whilst I silently thanked my personal trainer – the two hundred sit-ups a day were worth it.

‘I didn’t expect it. I hoped for it. I told you, I’m an optimist,’ Darrengrinned.Hislipswerewetwithchampagneandmycum.

Artful audacity is the icing on the cake. Suddenly Darren seemed dangerous. When had he got ahead of me in our sexual chess game? Had he won? Had I? Could we both?

It seems unlikely.

Cold, steely fear puts a hand around my throat, the grip tightens, squeezing the happiness out of me. My heart, which has been residing in the roof of my mouth, plummets. What have I done? What have I done? This is the disaster I’ve spent twenty-six years trying to avoid. I am not prepared to throw caution to the wind after just two weeks.

It would be nonsense.

I won’t do it.

I can’t do it.

This is the worst thing that could have happened. Because now I believe in all the stuff on TV, radio, novels and cinema. It’s true. You do know when you meet the One.

Your muse, your purpose, your explanation of life.

And suddenly life is shiny and glossy and worthwhile. But if the films and songs are right about falling in love, the chances are they can offer some insight into the outcome of entertaining such emotions.

Pain.

Lots of it.

Isn’t my mother living proof?

Every second I was with Darren was exhilarating. Reliving it now, every second is heartbreaking as I’m plagued with thoughts of what could go wrong. When he said he loved me I was blissed out, ecstatic but now I’m petrified. When Darren was with me I believed it. I believed it all, the happily ever after, the possibility that everlasting love is an option. But my confidence is ebbing away. It’s unrealistic to expect Darren to stay with me every minute of every day but when he’s not with me I’m too small to fight my own demons. It was OK in Whitby when we were constantly with each other – of course he couldn’t be unfaithful or leave me. But now… where is he now? Maybe he’s not in the Cotswolds. Maybe he’s with another woman. The reality is that love never lasts; falling in love is asking to be hurt, deceived and betrayed. I feel naked. I look at Issie but she’s oblivious to the sudden cold chill in the air. I know she’s thinking that if this happened to me, absolutely anything is possible.

But it’s not.

‘Of course, it can’t go on,’ I state, making my mind up only in the seconds that the words form in my mouth.

‘What?’

Turns out Issie’s lottery ticket got thrown out with the garbage. Shame.

‘It’s impossible.’ My tone is more certain than my mind.

‘But you’ve just said you love him,’ Issie is spluttering.

‘I do,’ I snap. ‘At this moment I love him completely, utterly, desperately, clichédly. But if I carry on like this the next thing you’ll know is that I’ll be giving him a pet name and wanting his babies.’ I sound more harsh and resolute than I feel. I hope my voice convinces my heart.

‘And what’s so terrible about that?’

If I’m not mistaken she actually has tears in her eyes or perhaps her contacts are playing up. Poor Issie.

‘Well, let’s take it through to its logical conclusion, shall we? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if I care for him more than he cares for me?’

‘But from what you said he sounds besotted.’

‘Well, men always are at first, aren’t they?’ Even Issie should know this. Especially Issie. ‘Then when the girl’s hooked they stop calling. The power in every relationship sits with the person who cares least.’

‘That’s where you go wrong, thinking that relationships are about power.’

‘I don’t go wrong, Issie.’ I lay a heavy emphasis on the ‘I’. ‘This would never have happened if I’d stayed in town. It’s just that Whitby was, I don’t know, beautiful, romantic.’ I continue to search for the correct word, ‘different’.

‘Cas, are you sure it’s the scenery and not him that you are talking about?’ I glare at her. ‘He sounds genuine,’ she pleads.

‘OK, well, scenario number two. Assuming he feels the same way that I do—’

‘He does, doesn’t he? I know you think he does,’ squeals Issie.

I hardly dare suggest it. I think of him nibbling my fingers, brushing my hair, and looking at baby photos of me.

‘Well, for the sake of this argument, let’s say he does. Then what?’

‘You could marry and live Happily Ever After.’

As though it really were that simple. How naive! Issie obviously hasn’t learnt anything from her years of being my friend. I explain it slowly and clearly, as I’m beginning to suspect she’s hard of hearing.

‘There. Is. No. Such. Thing. Yes, we could marry but sooner or later (and it probably would be sooner, as these intense affairs are always the first to burn out) he’d let me down. Or I’d let him down. And that would be hell. If he can make me feel this good’ – as though I was born the moment his dick delved into me – ‘imagine how foul he could make me feel if he left.’

Issie hides her face in her hands. ‘Who are you trying to convince?’

‘No one.’ Me. Me. I’m trying to convince myself, but at the same time I’d be more grateful than Issie could possibly know if she proved my argument is guff. But she can’t because I’m right. I’m certain I’m right. I have to stop this going any further.

‘Cas, you’re thirty-three now, not seven. And just because your parents’ relationship didn’t work it doesn’t mean there can’t be successful relationships.’

I glare at her. Although Issie knows everything about my mother and father’s divorce, we have an unwritten rule that we never discuss it. I am not the type to bleat on Oprah.

‘Issie, one in three households are single-people house-holds. Three in four couples who co-habit split up. Nearly one in two marriages end in divorce. Look at the facts.’ Now that ‘the facts’ have burst (uninvited) into my consciousness they won’t go away.

‘But think about Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. They’ve been married for ever and they are blissful.’

‘That’s one example, Issie.’

‘There’s the Queen and Prince Philip.’ I snort. She’s desperate.

‘There’s Mr and Mrs Brown in the baker’s on Teddington Crescent.’

‘They’re fictional.’

‘There’s my mum and dad.’

‘But your mum hates your dad.’

‘Not at all. She only pretends to. What about that couple on your show who didn’t fall into temptation?’

‘It’s only a matter of time.’

Issie raises her eyes skyward.

‘Oh, Cas, you poor thing.’

What can she mean? My mistake was allowing myself to become besotted by Darren. A mistake but not irrevocable. Not if I act swiftly and certainly now.

‘Issie, can I come and stay with you for tonight?’

‘Of course, if you want to. Why?’

‘Because I know if I see him I’ll weaken and I’m expecting him to pop by late tonight, when he gets back from the Cotswolds.’

‘Oh, see him, pleeeease.’

‘I can’t, Issie. I’m not playing games here. This isn’t a way to make him more interested. I have to sever all contact immediately. I can’t allow this to continue. I can’t make myself vulnerable.’

I simply can’t. Not won’t. Can’t.

I whizz around my bedroom and start throwing some clothes and cosmetics into a bag. I hardly pause to consider what I’m selecting, but I do stop to smell the sheets and to take him in one last time. He is why I was born a woman, but he can never, ever know because whilst I can only just bear walking away from him, I know I would be inconsolable if he ever left me.

This vulgar state of being ‘in love’ – it’s bound to be only temporary. The sooner I get back to my ordinary routine the better I’ll feel.

It will only be a matter of time.

Very little time at that, probably.

Probably.

I pull the sheets off the bed and push them into the washing basket.

Issie realizes that she’s not going to change my mind so instead settles for changing the subject. As I stuff a hairbrush and knickers in a bag she tells me that the sad loser guy from New Year has called. They’ve seen each other a few times. Issie’s excited because they play Connect 4 together. I can’t forgive him for letting his mother fix him up. Issie chatters on but I can’t keep track. I’m sure it’s delightful but I’m not sure I care. How has this terrible thing happened to me? How has this wonderful thing happened to me? How can it be both at once? I’ve seen enough to know that it is a messy, complex, filthy state of affairs at the best of times – i.e. when you want to be in love. This is by no means the best of times. I thought I was immune. I thought I was somehow better or different – certainly cleverer. Now I understand no one is immune.

As we put on our coats, Issie sighs, ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you?’

‘I’m sorry, Issie. I’ve spent my entire evening forgetting about Darren,’ I smile sadly.

‘Why are you doing this? Don’t you think there’s a possibility that you are snuffing out a genuine chance of happiness?’ she coaxes.