To take my mind off the looming event, I went out to the shed, fetched the old wooden lawnmower, and wheeled it around to the front garden. I loved the gently whirring sound, and the metal bucket clipped to the front, catching the cuttings. Plus, it was my equivalent of a workout at the gym. I cut the lawn, emptied the cuttings into the composting bin, then did the same at the back.

Elvis watched me from the doorway, suspicious of the whirring blades and the grunting noises I made as I negotiated the turns at each end of the lawn. When the machine returned to the shed, my dog emerged and helped me do some weeding by following me and stealing whatever I pulled up.

At six o’clock, I returned indoors and made toast, reasoning that fainting with hunger in the Dexter Bay Hotel would be an extra embarrassment I didn’t need. My stomach lurched about like a Morris dancer after a barrel of scrumpy, and then the thought of scrumpy made it lurch even more. I nibbled the toast, washed it down with coffee, and took two more painkillers.

“Drugs and alcohol,” I told Elvis. “Except without the alcohol and only paracetamol. Could I be any cooler? Don’t answer that.”

Time was ticking. I went upstairs and showered and then surveyed my wardrobe, wondering what to wear and trying to remember the advice agony columns always gave you for times like this. ‘Wear something that looks good, and you feel comfortable in: don’t buy a new dress or high heels.’ Well, there was no chance of that. I rarely wore dresses and got vertigo in any shoe with a heel higher than baseball boots.

In the end, I plumped for black jeans and an Indian cotton shirt with embroidery and tiny mirrors around the hem and shoved my feet into black canvas ballet pumps.

“Make-up.” I sat at my dressing table, and Elvis wandered in and watched while I dabbed eyeshadow on my lids and managed to wiggle the mascara wand on my lashes without poking myself in the eye. Then I brushed my hair, blasted it with hairspray, and put in dangly silver earrings I’d bought from the local gift shop.

The jewellery made me look at my wedding ring.

“Sod it.” I rose, headed to the bathroom, took soap and water, and eased the gold band from my finger. Then I returned to the bedroom, opened my jewellery box, took out the tray, and dumped the ring in the bottom compartment. Jeff had given me discreet gold jewellery for birthdays and Christmas. I’d never choose to buy that kind of jewellery myself – not because it was expensive but because it wasn’t my taste. It was boring. Classy, maybe, but boring all the same. And just not me.

“The old Marnie is back.” I grinned at Elvis, crossed to my bed, then reached below and hauled out an old suitcase. Among clothes and accessories from my life before Jeff was a biscuit tin containing silver rings, pendants, and earrings. I took everything out and transferred it to my jewellery box, removing Jeff’s tasteful offerings and consigning them to the tin instead. Then I chose three large, colourful rings and slipped them on. “I feel better already.”

Better…but still a bag of nerves.

At half past seven, I went downstairs and paced the hallway, breathing deeply and thinking of things to say to Tim. Of course, I could always ask about Midsomer Murders - that would keep Sue happy. Maybe he’d like to talk about himself, and I could just sit and listen…and then escape. I wondered exactly why I was dreading this so much when, if it had been Paul who’d given me his number, I would have been much happier. Still nervous, but enthusiastic, too.

Tim wasn’t Paul.

But Paul had a girlfriend.

I stopped pacing, and Elvis came downstairs, looked hopefully at my jacket and handbag, and stood by the door wagging his tail. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t take you.”

Elvis’s tail drooped. “Oh, no, don’t look at me like that.” The hotel welcomed dogs, but I figured I’d be stressed enough without having to control Elvis into the bargain. Plus, he was an excellent excuse to leave early if things got too much. I’m worried about my dog, as it’s the first time I’ve left him alone.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I’ll leave some music on for you.” I headed to the kitchen, took a handful of treats, and tuned the radio to an easy-listening station. “Maybe you’d prefer death metal, but I don’t think old Reg next door would appreciate that.” I scattered the treats around the floor and hurried down the hall and out of the front door. At the gate, I looked back and saw Elvis staring at me from the living room window. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

I walked quickly away, feeling wretched and guilty and resolved to take him with me next time. Would there be another time? Perhaps I’d enjoy myself so much I couldn’t resist a repeat performance. I ran this around my head as I approached the hotel, trying to convince myself it might be true.

I was fifteen minutes early, so I considered my options. I could go in and seem pathetically keen to whoever was in there or hang around outside and look pathetically keen to the rest of Dexter Bay. I reckoned I couldn’t look keen right then if my life depended on it, but the pathetic part came easily enough. With a sigh, I entered the hotel and crossed the foyer to the lounge bar.

The doors were open, and the noise hit me like a tsunami of drunken small talk. Glasses clinked. Raucous laughter rang out. I saw our milkman eyeing up a curvy blonde who wasn’t his wife and the postmistress frowning at her husband as he downed a pint in record time. I told myself I could do this and walked through the doorway.

All eyes turned my way. Conversation faded and died. If they had a piano player, he would have switched to something in D minor. I turned so hot I thought I might spontaneously combust, managed to smile, and Laura, my next-door neighbour from around the corner on Hill Street, stepped forward.

“Marnie,” she said, her voice suggesting I had weeks to live. “How are you? Gary and I are so sorry about Jeff.”

“Yeah, like, I mean….” Her husband made a face. “That was, like…yeah.”

“Thanks, Gary,” I said, embarrassment kick-starting my sarcasm gene and revving the engine. “Those eloquent words mean a lot; they really do.”

Gary beamed at me, and Laura nodded. I fought the urge to thrust two fingers into the air, using both hands, accompanied by the loudest raspberry I could manage. Laura laid a hand on my arm. “It’s great you’re not letting public humiliation bring you down. Why shouldn’t you come out for a drink on your own? I think you’re so brave.”

In my head, I performed a ninja leap and kicked her in the throat. In reality, my smile turned rictus, and I managed to say, “Thanks. That’s so sweet.”

“You wanna stand with us?” Gary asked, and Laura’s expression froze. I almost accepted, just to watch her readjust her features and pretend she was delighted, but, instead, I began moving away.

“Thanks, but I’m going to look for a seat.”

“You’ll be lucky.” This was another local I recognised from the occasional meeting in the chemist where he always seemed to be buying haemorrhoid cream. “Seems like the whole of Dexter Bay’s here.”

This was worse than I’d imagined - why didn’t I suggest meeting Tim in Lufton?

Because I’d been out of my face on booze, that’s why.

I wove between tables, nodding at familiar faces and looking relaxed, as if it was customary for the clientele to regard me as the cabaret. Maybe I should burst into song, do a few verses of ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ or ‘New York, New York’.

Maybe ‘Cry Me a River’ would be more appropriate.

Around me, conversation resumed in stage whispers, and I heard my name, then Jeff’s, and then ‘choked on a piece of cheese’. There were no free tables, so I turned towards the bar and shoved in beside someone who turned out to be Windy Miller.

I nearly screamed.

Windy Miller – real name Wendy – is Dexter Bay’s champion gasbag. Despite being short-sighted and wearing glasses with magnifying lenses that make her look like a demented owl, Wendy Miller misses nothing. Part-Time Music Teacher and Full-Time Gossip, she’s also the worst organist St John’s has seen in living memory. Too busy watching for Goings-On in the pews, she never keeps her sheet music in the correct order. If you walk past the church on a Sunday morning, you can hear her belting out ‘Abide With Me’ while the congregation are trying to sing ‘How Great Thou Art’.

Wendy was in mid-conversation and obviously expecting someone she knew to appear beside her because she tilted her head my way and said, “You’ll never guess what I just heard about Marnie Hope. Her husband’s left….” At this point, she twigged that I wasn’t whoever she’d expected and twisted round to face me, turned bright red and stammered, “Oh, I, er, hello…Marnie.”

“Hello, Wendy.” The double-barrelled two-finger salute became even more attractive, complete with the loudest raspberry known to man. “You were saying…?”

“Oh, no, I was, er, just, um, house prices are going up again, ha, ha, ha.”

“Yes, that is funny.” My sarcasm gene moved up a gear. “Not as funny as my husband leaving me for a younger model, but still hilarious.”

She burst into nervous laughter so high-pitched I imagined dolphins in the bay replying. And then the conversation stopped for a second time, and all heads swivelled to the doorway where Tim stood, smiling easily and scanning the room.

Right then, there was no one I wanted to see more than my own personal actor-slash-model, and I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face him.