The House on Willow Street. Cathy Kelly

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      ‘OK then, but promise me you’ll dance like there’s nobody watching,’ Cici added.

      ‘Isn’t that the advice from a fridge magnet?’ Mara demanded.

      ‘Fridge magnets can be very clever,’ her friend replied. ‘A clean kitchen is the sign of a boring person, and all that.’

      ‘True.’

      There was a pause.

      ‘I always danced like there was nobody watching,’ Mara said mournfully. ‘Jack loved that about me. He said I was a free spirit. Although not as free as Tawhnee.’

      ‘She was obviously free with everything, from her favours to her skirt lengths,’ Cici said caustically.

      Mara smiled. That was the thing about a good girlfriend: she’d fight your corner like a caged lioness. If you were injured, she was injured too and she remembered all the hurts and would never forgive anyone for inflicting them on you.

      ‘She has great legs,’ Mara admitted.

      ‘All people of twenty-four have great legs. It’s only when you get to thirty that your knees sag and the cellulite hits.’

      Cici was thirty-five to Mara’s thirty-three and considered herself an expert on ageing issues. Mara could remember being mildly uninterested when Cici had complained about cellulite spreading over her thighs like an invasion of sponges. Then one day, it had happened to her and she’d understood. Was that to be her fate for ever – understanding when it was too late?

      The wedding band were murdering ‘I Only Have Eyes for You’ when Jack appeared beside her, urbane in his dinner jacket.

      ‘Mara, you look wonderful.’

      Mara had maxed out her credit card on a designer number from an expensive shop that catered for petite women. She’d been going to wear one of her vintage specials, but she hadn’t the heart for it: she’d show Jack and everyone else that she could do ‘normal’ clothes too. So at great expense, she’d bought a bosom-defying turquoise prom dress worn with very high, open-toed shoes. She’d curled her hair with rollers and clipped it up on one side with a turquoise-and-pink flower brooch. Her lips were MAC’s iconic scarlet Ruby Woo, her seamed stockings were in a straight line, and she knew she looked as good as she could. Not mainstream, no, but good. Not ordinary, she hoped.

      ‘Would you like to dance?’

      Dance with Jack?

      It must be a dream. A very strange dream, she decided. Soon, a big white rabbit would appear, along with a deranged woman screeching ‘Off with their heads!’ and possibly Johnny Depp wearing contact lenses and a lot of make-up.

      Still, even if it was a dream, she’d go along. Nobody could think she was a bad loser if they saw her dancing with her former lover.

      ‘Of course,’ she said, beaming at him.

      Smile all the time, had been Cici’s other advice. If you stop smiling, even for a minute, they’ll all be sure you’re going to cry, so smile like you are having the time of your life.

      Amazingly, Jack seemed to be buying the fake grin and grinned right back at her.

      Mara steeled herself for a speedy and guilty whisk round the dance floor. Tawhnee was sure to be watching, narrow-eyed. She might be young and beautiful, but she wasn’t stupid.

      However, instead of the expected quick dance, Jack held Mara very close.

      Mara’s ability to smile despite the pain inside cut off suddenly.

      ‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped at him.

      ‘Do what?’

      He was still smiling, seemingly perfectly happy.

      Jack loved a party and what he loved even more was one of his parties. His wedding party would therefore be the ultimate in all-about-himness.

      ‘Smile at me like that.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like you weren’t my boyfriend for two years and didn’t dump me for Tawhnee, like that.’

      ‘Oh.’

      Even Jack’s skin wasn’t thick enough for that to bounce off.

      They twirled some more, stony-faced now. Jack loosened his grip. Mara knew she should say nothing, but she couldn’t. Her mouth refused to obey. Instead of hissing You bastard! which had been on the tip of her tongue for some time, she demanded: ‘Why did you invite me?’

      ‘Why did you come?’ he countered.

      ‘Because if I didn’t come, everyone in work would think I was bitter and enraged.’

      ‘But—’

      If Jack had been about to say ‘obviously you are bitter and enraged …’ some part of his brain kicked in and told him not to.

      ‘I wanted us to be friends,’ he said forlornly.

      Friends! After two years of thinking he was the love of her life, now he wanted to be friends.

      Suddenly, Mara no longer cared what it all looked like.

      She pulled herself away.

      ‘Goodbye, Jack,’ she snapped, and stormed off in the direction of the French windows.

      It was a cold evening, but because much of the castle’s beauty lay in its outdoors, lights lit up the patios where bay trees in pots were draped with giant cream bows.

      If she could only hold the tears and the anger in until she was alone, Mara told herself, she’d be fine.

      The fairy lights sprinkled around in the trees gave the place a storybook feel. It was such a pretty venue: the old castle with its turrets and its coat of arms, the huge hall ablaze with candles, the giant heaters outside on the verandah surrounded by mini-lanterns. It was the perfect setting for an autumn wedding.

      She shivered as she crossed the stone flags to stand under a heater.

      This could have been me, thought Mara with a pang of sorrow. I could have been the bride surrounded by my family, wearing old lace, rushing upstairs to the four-poster bed of the bridal suite to make legal love to my husband for the first time.

      Instead, she was facing a taxi ride to a B&B in the local village, because the family had snaffled all the castle bedrooms. Her room in the B&B was tiny and freezing, situated under the eaves, and the bed was a small, creaky double – she’d sat on it earlier and the crank of springs was so loud it had made her bounce up again with fright. If she’d lost her mind and taken another guest back for a wild night of casual frolicking, the B&B owners would undoubtedly bang on the door to get them to keep the noise down because of the bed springs.

      ‘I thought you’d be happy,’ said a slightly plaintive voice.

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