‘I take it the wedding’s off, is it, Cas?’ Josh asks.

I think I hear hope in his voice. Which is worse than all the above. I know his heart rate and breathing have quickened. I know his mouth is parched and his stomach somersaulting.

‘Cas, I’m sorry about the show. I should never have agreed to do it. I didn’t know they were going to stitch you up that badly. I didn’t approach the studio, they approached me. They didn’t stick to the rehearsed questions. I didn’t—’

‘I know,’ I sigh, cutting him off. He needn’t explain. I’d assumed the best of him, blaming him for little more than naïvety. It is a pity that Josh didn’t have enough confidence and trust in our relationship and therefore put us both through this. But he was right not to trust me, so the pity and shame are mine. ‘It’s not your fault, Josh. I’m sorry they used you—’

‘Can’t we just put it behind us?’ Hopeful.

‘No. We both know I can’t marry you.’ Firm. ‘I am sorry they used you to get at me but I’m more sorry that I used you.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I love you, Josh, but I’m not in love with you. I agreed to marry you for the wrong reasons.’ For the first time I understand what the expression ‘cruel to be kind’ really means; I’m not using it as an excuse to dump someone who’s outgrown his use, become tedious or whom I’ve simply stopped fancying. Dare I add the next bit? ‘And I don’t think you are really in love with me.’ I hear him take a sharp intake of breath. It sounds as though I’ve punctured his lung. I’ve certainly punctured his dreams.

‘What the fuck do you know, Cas?’ he snaps drunkenly.

‘Not much,’ I admit. I pause. There isn’t a gentle way. ‘But a bit more than when I agreed to marry you. I am so very sorry, Josh.’

‘But it’s so humiliating. The invites have gone out.’ He’s pleading with me, nearly begging, but instead of the cold delight that I used to derive from impassioned accounts of unrequited love, I hurt for him.

‘Please, Josh, don’t say any more.’ If I wasn’t so swollen with sadness I’d be amused that he hopes that anyone who’s received an invitation will still consider it valid. All Britain knows I’m not going to be wafting down the aisle in a cloud of silk and lace this Saturday.

‘You don’t believe that thing about the One, so aren’t I as good as the next one? Better than none?’

‘Josh, you’re wonderful. You’ll make someone a fabulous husband,’ I say truthfully.

‘But not you.’ There’s no need for me to comment. ‘And are you planning to keep the champagne on ice for your wedding to Darren?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Your adulterous friend.’ I try to be patient and remember he is within his constitutional right to be bitter and livid. I don’t say that sleeping with Darren wasn’t infidelity. Sleeping with Josh was.

‘You know we can’t ever see each other again?’ he threatens.

This is complex. A fat tear splashes on to my telephone directory. Crying is now significantly more natural than breathing.

‘If that’s what you want,’ I say, knowing this is not what I want but I have to respect his wishes now.

‘You realize what I’m saying. There will be no one to fix your washing machine, or check the oil and water in your car. No one to send out for pizza in the middle of the afternoon because you and Issie are too engrossed in your movie to move your arses.’ He’s trying to sound angry, but I can still hear the tears in his voice.

‘I’ll miss you. I love you. I’m sorry,’ I squeak and I put the phone down.

I know I can get in a plumber, take the car to the garage and order my own pizza. I can do it alone, but I’ll miss him. I’ll miss his stupid jokes and his stories about court. I’ll miss his hugs and his cooking. I’ll miss our shared history. I’ll miss his friendship.

Darren.

His face cuts into my consciousness, explodes and sends tiny particles of emotion hurtling into my heart, knocking me sideways. It doesn’t feel secure, it feels risky, but it feels safe too. I don’t feel certain, but I am sure. It’s right and it is fractious. I can’t marry one man knowing I am in love with another.

The odd thing is, I’ve lost Darren.

Quite literally.

I have spent the last four days trying to track Darren down but he’s vanished. His mobile is switched off. And when I went to his house his flatmate told me he hadn’t seen him since the night before the TV6 party. I went to his laboratory and office to ask for him. No one had seen him for a few days. It was suggested that he might have been consigned to an away job. But if anyone knew where that might be, they weren’t going to tell me – public enemy number one – no matter how much I cajoled, threatened or pleaded. Issie sees his disappearance as an admission of his involvement in the set-up; Mum’s reserving judgement but as the days have slipped by, and there’s been no contact, her face has become increasingly fraught.

I know he wasn’t in with Bale and Fi. I don’t know why he’s disappeared but I know he didn’t betray me.

So, after all my years of scepticism, mistrust, selfish hedonism, I find I have landed here, exactly where I was scrupulously avoiding.

In love.

But alone.

I guess that’s evidence that there is a God, or at least my fifty-three cast-off lovers would think so.

I return to the office on Thursday. It’s a difficult journey into work as journalists are constantly trailing me. One of them is more tenacious (or junior) than all the others and has been camped outside my door since Saturday. He’s obviously unsuited to sleeping rough and now looks as bad as I feel. Seeing his chilled and crumpled state this morning, I take pity on him and pass a few pleasantries and offer him a cup of tea. He looks at me suspiciously but is too cold to turn down the tea. It may be July but it’s a British July.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read, you know. I’m not Cruella De Vil.’ He takes the tea. ‘Are you planning on trailing me all day?’ He nods. ‘Well, I’m driving to work. I might as well give you a lift.’ He doesn’t know whether to accept my offer. Naturally he’s trying to discern what my ulterior motive could be. There isn’t one. I’m too worn out to formulate a come-back strategy. I’m not even sure that I want to.

I arrive at the office by 8.15 a.m., and although I haven’t managed to go to the gym I enter with my kit bag over my shoulder to give the impression that not only is it business as normal, but I am healthy and sane. I’m wearing a charcoal-grey Armani suit – emotional armour – and dark glasses to hide the bags under my eyes, induced from lack of sleep and endless crying. But then I do work in media and as long as the glasses are designer no one thinks twice about my wearing them inside.

I walk through the glass, open-plan offices, cursing (not for the first time) the architect. Had he considered my public humiliation when he put together his design? I nod to a few faces and ignore the sniggering and whispering. I walk the marathon to my desk, sit down and put on my PC. I ring Jaki’s extension number.

‘Jaki, can you bring me a double espresso, please,’ I ask, as I do every morning.

‘You’re back!’ She doesn’t trouble to hide her disbelief.

‘I am. I had summer flu. But I’m back now.’

‘Er, glad to hear you’re better,’ she stutters.

‘Thank you, Jaki. Can you bring me my diary? Oh, and can you make room in it so that I can see Bale today?’

‘Well, actually your diary is clear.’

I get it, but pretend not to.

‘Fine, then I’ll have time for some invoicing and it shouldn’t be difficult for you to get me an appointment with Bale.’ I hang up.

Bale agrees to see me at 11.00 a.m. In the meantime the entire staff studiously avoid me. My leper-like state is due to the widely held belief that luck is catching – both good and bad. When I was fast-tracking my way through promotions I’d been an extremely popular girl. Trixxie is the only exception. She does pop by my desk to say hi. But then I suspect that in her drug-induced state she has no idea what happened on last week’s show.

I choose to wait until five past eleven before I walk into Bale’s office. Fi is sitting there already.

‘Bale, you’ve put on weight,’ I smile. Pleasantries over, I close his office door. He reminds me of a walrus, his pink fleshiness indefinitely merging nose into lip, lip into chin, chin into neck into chest and suddenly we arrive at his feet. I try to think of his good points. I can’t. He doesn’t even close his mouth when he chews his food. I turn to Fi. She, on the other hand, looks magnificent. Triumphant, glowing. I think of Lady Macbeth. She’s wearing an Alberta Ferretti suit, which, as I’ve never seen it before, I can only assume was bought from her ratings-achieved bonus.

‘Nice suit, Fi,’ I comment. ‘I didn’t realize that they took blood money at Harvey Nics. Thought it was just charge cards.’

‘Oh, come off it, Cas. You know the game.’ She looks sensational and I know for certain that my team will now be worshipping at the temple of Fiona. They can’t see through her. Because they are dazzled. She’s dazzling.

‘Have a seat, Cas,’ offers Bale. I note it’s the low one. They’ll tower inches above me if I sit in it.

‘I prefer to stand.’

‘Oh, not stopping?’ asks Bale. They start to snigger.

‘Did you catch the show on Saturday?’ asks Fi. Which sends them into raptures.

‘Have you seen the runs? Aren’t you going to congratulate us on the ratings? You always said a show with Darren Smith would break all records,’ pursues Bale.

‘Ratings? Ratings? Is that all you think about?’ I snap. Despite my vows to remain cool and calm throughout.