Dani pulls a face and scrunches her nose, “What did you say you fancy? I couldn’t hear you I’ve the noise.” I stare at her, unable to repeat the words, let alone believe them. “I fancy…” my voice trails off. She looks at me in bewilderment, “what? A dance? A drink?” I nod, snapping out of my daze. “Yes, I fancy a drink.” “Well, it’s my round,” she says, pulling her purse from her bag. “You’d better wait here; in case these lot start throwing their knickers at him.” As Dani heads to the bar, I find myself wandering away to look for Chris. I spend twenty minutes searching the venue, desperate to reinstate order in my twisted mind. I fancy Chris, not Scott. Chris not Scott. I fancy Chris. The more I say it, the more convinced I am and the better I feel. Unfortunately the improvement in my psychological well-being is short lived. It becomes obvious that Chris has ditched us. He’s abandoned us and disappeared to god knows where. I feel a flash of panic that he saw me watch

The Rachel Weekend as it’s become known by me, Dani and Katie, turns out to just be the start. The new Scott has been unleashed. The weekend after the Rachel weekend, he has a date with a photographer called Jenny. It lasts for several days. The Saturday after that, there’s a gym with a Pilates instructor called Leanne. She only lasts one night, but then he’s back with Rachel. But only in the Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. By Saturday, a graphic designer called Chloe pops out of nowhere. She stays until Monday, when Rachel appears again. But only for one night, because he’s back with Jenny again the following evening, while I’m left to fight off phone calls from others. And so it goes on. In the three weeks or so since the Beverley Races, I hardly see Scott. When I do he’s either off out with some woman or other, or coming back with them, where they closet themselves in his bedroom – emerging hours, or more often – days later, with the most nauseatingly dreamy look on their face.

Scott arrives home at eleven the next morning and immediately jumps in the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he finds his way to the kitchen, as I’m making brunch. “Rachel called for you, again, last night,” I tell him as I try to unpurse my lips. “Uh. Did she?” He at least has the decency to look guilty about messing her around. “Yes,” I reply, coldly. Scott is wearing a pair of cargo pants and a pink T-Shirt. Nothing special, yet he manages to look impossibly sexy. I haven’t got my head around that idea yet. Scott being sexy, I mean. Scott looking half decent used to be a difficult enough concept. Every morning, I expect him to emerge looking like he used to; as if he stepped out of a Time Machine, all monstrous clothing and mad hair. Instead, his clothes enhance a physique to which I had never paid a moment’s attention to, until recently. One with sculpted biceps, a toned stomach, a broad and muscular back and a perfectly formed arse. It’s hard to believe that’s always b

I pray that Scott is in when I arrive home at nine thirty. I’m desperate to talk about what happened tonight and he is the only person who’ll do. Aside from the fact that Katie and Dani are out, they aren’t as good as listening as Scott is. No disrespect to them, but no one is. And after tonight’s trauma, I need someone to do some serious listening. I remind myself, however, that it is a Saturday night and Scott hasn’t been around on a Saturday night since since the dinosaurs roamed the Earth – or at least that’s how it feels. The point is, I’m not holding out much hope. As I put my key in the door and push it open, I spot Scott’s coat on the coat rack, hanging next to mine. The sight makes my heart skip with happiness. Scott’s home and I know I’m going to be okay. His keys are on the side table next to his phone. I pick it up and look at the screen, a daft picture of the two of us dressed up in 80’s gear. I can’t help smiling, even though I’ve seen it a thousand

I’m starting to feel extremely frustrated about things between Scott and me that I decide it’s time to take action. Only as I come home and find the house empty yet again, I acknowledge that it’s easier said than done. Throwing my keys on the sideboard I wander through to the bathroom. With two empty bottles of conditioner lingering in the shower and dried toothpaste encrusted on the sink, it’s more neglected than usual. The same thought strikes me in the kitchen as I wash away the crumbs from under the toaster and begin to wash the coffee cups that have been abandoned in the sink. Then I realise the difference: Scott. Our division of chores used to be perfectly clear cut, despite never having formally designated jobs to each other. I’d cook because I enjoyed it. And Scott would look after the housework – because I didn’t enjoy it. He’s now for better things to do than mop up after me. Acting on impulse, I grab my phone and call him. To my surprise, he answers straight away. “