Five hours later, I have to wonder where it all went wrong. Having sent my oddly-absent boyfriend numerous text messages saying that I have some great news and where the hell is he, a not-very-sexy-at-all version of Henry stumbles through the door at midnight, heaving his large frame onto the sofa. Henry and I met during our final year at University. If there had been an award for ‘least likely couple’ we would’ve won it. Henry, the captain of the Uni Rugby team and the skiing club, the tall and charming boy that had all the girls giggling, and somehow interested in me – a music-obsessed art student that wore a lot of black and wouldn’t be seen dead at foam parties in our Student Union. Yup, I was charmed alright and I loved that we were so different. I guess it was a case of opposites attracting at first, but over the years, we’ve grown together and changed for each other. Well, I like to think so anyway. My best friend Evie seems to think that I’ve done a lot of changing and Henry is still the same.

He’s still charismatic, clever and his floppy fringe falls over his piercing blue eyes in a way that still makes me feel a little bit wobbly, so I’ll forgive him the beer gut that seems to have developed over the last year. I bend over to give him a quick kiss, immediately assaulted by beer and cigarette fumes. Yuck. I aim for his damp cheek instead.

‘Didn’t you get my texts? I sent about four.’ I ask, trying not to sound like a nag. Henry hates it when I nag.

‘Nah, sorry hon. iPhone’s been off all night. With the boys y’see…’

It’s only then that I remember our hurried conversation at the bus stop this morning, where he’d given me a quick peck and said something about meeting his friends who generally see more of him than I do.I bash my head in mock-forgetfulness and sit next to him, clutching a mug of tea and wishing we had a bottle of wine in the fridge instead.

‘Oh…. yup, sorry. Totally remember now. What a mad day… I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages. Something crazy happened at work.’

‘Really? Did Susannah tell you off again for using the wrong colour blue?’ he asks, absent-mindedly picking something off his pink silk tie. ‘God. I’m knackered…’

‘Not exactly, hon… Although you should’ve seen her today. First off, she swore.’

Henry, bless him, reacts in exactly the way I’d hoped.

‘Susannah swore? Blimey. What happened?’

I smile smugly, before imparting my exciting news. ‘Don’t freak out, but we’ve all been made redundant. Isn’t that bloody brilliant! No more Bostock bollocks. Natty Shoreditch design agency, here I come!’

There is a dramatic pause. Henry’s mouth opens and closes. First, he goes a little bit pale. Then, his cheeks get pinker. And then a bit pinker, until his face goes purple.

‘What?!’ he cries. ‘That’s bloody terrible!’ He gets up and starts pacing the room, before turning on his heel and giving me an exasperated look. ‘How are we going to afford to buy our own place now? Honestly, this is SUCH bad timing… so bloody typical…’ he starts muttering to himself as he endeavours to wear a hole in the carpet.

At first, I am touched by such a heartfelt reaction – he must really, really care about my feelings. I’m a lucky girl indeed.

‘But Henry, it’s fantastic when you think about it.’ I smile up at him, keen for him to realise how good I’m feeling. ‘I’m going to get some redundancy money – about ten grand I think - and I can get a new job. You know I’ve always hated working for those idiots. Now I can do something much more creative, like I’ve always wanted to. I’ve been so miserable there lately.’ I say, my face lighting up with excitement. I cannot wait to tell him all my ideas and plans.

I’m faced with a black look. ‘Those bastards… I can’t believe this!’ he spits. ‘How are we going to get a mortgage with you out of work? And it’s going to take ages for you to get another job. I mean, Christ, how many people can make things look pretty on a piece of paper and call themselves a ‘designer’, eh? Loads! At least working in the City pays well!’ There is a pause as he flops down on the sofa next to me, almost spilling my tea. ‘Oh, hang on… I know this bird that makes loads of cash designing presentations for this bank – easy money. You’d be great at that….’

I start to speak, but he interrupts me. ‘Then again, we could use your redundancy money as part of the deposit on the house…’ he trails off as he gets up again and paces the room. I forget about feeling sorry for the carpet as a sudden feeling of indignation hits me like a truck. Before I can stop myself, I stand up to face him.

‘Henry! Don’t reduce my career to nothing! I can’t believe you just said that.’ I exclaim, putting my mug down on the table with a thud.‘I’ll be able to get work quickly – I can always freelance for a little while.’

Where did he get this idea that all my redundancy money should go on the deposit for this non-existent flat? That isn’t exactly fair, for starters. And does he know me at all – going to work on PowerPoint presentations for another bank would be like skipping out of the frying pan and landing in the fiery pits of Hell.

‘Oh bloody hell, you are so naïve!’ he thunders, turning away from me and walking to the window. ‘Don’t you realise that it’ll be harder to get a mortgage if you work on a freelance basis.’ He sighs dramatically. ‘God… you just don’t think, Lex. And why are they getting rid of you anyway? Did you ever consider that? I always told you to make more of an effort, toe the line, try not to rock the boat, but no, you and Susannah never saw eye-to-eye… What about Rob and Barney? Are they going too?’

‘As I said before…’ I reply huffily, utterly wrong-footed by his obnoxious turn from caring Mr Right to Mr Downright Dickhead. ‘….We’ve all been made redundant – Rob, Barney and Susannah. I’m going to ignore the fact that you completely forgot to ask how I was feeling and go to bed. I can’t believe how much of a twat you’re being!’

‘Oh, there we go… I’m the one being a twat as always!’ he exclaims, gesturing wildly before stomping through to the kitchen. ‘Did it ever occur to you that I work bloody hard, in a very stressful environment, might I add, to make money so that we can move forwards towards our goals…’

I sigh, rolling my eyes as I land back down on the sofa. Not the ‘goals’ word. Here it comes… the lecture about getting a foot on the housing ladder. How we should be thinking about long-term investments, Pensions, ISA’s, babies, marriage, retirement. Retirement? At the age of 30? Not bloody likely.

I‘m still wide awake when I feel the bed move as he gets in next to me and pulls the duvet across him. He’s not generally a duvet hog, but he’s obviously still smarting from our argument. I pretend to be fast asleep. He’s soon snoring loudly while I stare at the ceiling, finding it hard to stop myself from feigning an involuntary sleep-twitch and kicking him hard. I actually can’t remember the last time I felt so angry. How dare he say that I never toe the line? I do nothing BUT toe the bloody line – especially with Susannah. Maybe he reacted so badly because he was a bit drunk?

It’s probably because it’s the middle of the night and dark, but the more I think about the perfect boyfriend I’ve always made Henry out to be, the more I realise he’s always having a go at me about ‘stuff’. Mostly about what I wear, if I’m honest. That I actually have a more adventurous sense of fashion is something I value and wearing suits all week means that I love to slouch around in baggy boyfriend jeans, colourful tops and t-shirts and my much-loved trainers (of which I have a small collection) at the weekends. I’m no slob - whenever we go out to meet his snooty rugby crew and their trophy girlfriends, I always get dolled up like a dogs dinner, slapping on the tinted moisturiser and LBD. It just isn’t my style. I’m not the world’s most girlie of girls, but I do love clothes, and I love fashion – just my kind of fashion.

Henry fidgets and flings an arm towards me, before turning on his side with a guttural snort. I turn away and pull the duvet closer, along with my beloved Pot Belly Bear. Yes, I’m 30 and I sleep with a fluffy black teddy Bear. Whatever.

Do I really want to buy a house? Do I really want to talk about retirement plans, or ISA’s – it’s a bit like being a grown-up, and that’s slightly terrifying. My life seems to be passing me by in a blur of work, food, TV and sleep. I rarely go out anymore and I can’t even remember the last gig I went to. When I was in my early twenties, I was practically living at Brixton Academy, spending all my money on music and gigs. We don’t even have friends over for dinner these days, apart from the married ones, and then the conversation inevitably turns to ‘When are you going to make an honest woman of her, eh, Henry?’ Much guffawing will follow, and Henry will grab my hand and kiss it, before giving me a cheeky wink. And actually, my girlish instincts kick in and I giggle sweetly.

Breakfast the next morning is far from the making-up kind. Henry leaves with barely a word other than “I’ll be out late tonight, so don’t wait up…” No morning cuddle, no kiss, no apology.

I lean against the kitchen table and look around our poky little rented flat, smothering my toast with more chocolate spread than is absolutely necessary. I’m so unsettled by last nights turn of events I have decided it’s high time I’m late for work for the first time in my life. Usually, I’m the first one in at 8am. But as I put another two pieces of bread in the toaster, I think: what the Hell, it’s not like they can fire me.

I pick up my mobile and dial my favourite number.

‘Vee? It’s me.’

‘Ughnnnnnn, Blimey Lex… bit early for a wake-up call.’ The voice on the other end of the line groans. ‘I’ve only just got to bed, you cow...’

My best mate Evie is a radio producer for the BBC, but spends most of her spare time (of which there is very little) spinning records at some of the trendiest clubs in London, and therefore surviving on very little sleep.

‘Shit! I’m so sorry, Vee. I’ll call you back later…’

‘Woah, there missy, it’s cool… I’m up now.’

There is the muffled sound of movement on the other end of the phone, before the familiar sound of Evie’s first cigarette of the day being lit tells me that she’s longer prostrate in bed. At least, I hope not.

‘Are you smoking in bed again? I told you off about that last time you burnt a hole in your Star Wars duvet? You cried. Remember?’

‘Yeah, yeah... Alright, Mummy McGinty. I’ve relocated to the armchair… the joy of cordless telephones. The tone of your voice is telling me you’re not a happy bunny. What’s the deal?’

‘I called your mobile, you muppet. You don’t have a cordless telephone.’

There’s an audible sigh. ‘If you’re just going to be a smartarse, I’ll fuck off back to bed, Lex, ‘kay? I did a fantastic gig at Koko last night and get this, the lead singer of The Atomics only went and asked for my number! How fucking awesome is that, eh? Adorable boys vying for my attention and they pay me? Sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not on a really bad acid trip… or should that be a good trip? What’s the definition of a good trip – is it bad, or is it good?’

And there we go. I try not to feel bitter and twisted about how un-cool my life has become, and even though Evie is a pretty bloody marvellous friend, she doesn’t realise how rubbish these kind of statements make me feel.

‘Lex? You still there? You alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Mouthful of Nutella.’

‘Uh-oh. Code-Nutella, eh? What’s he done now?’

‘It’s not Henry!’ I reply too quickly, with a squeak in my voice that betrays me utterly. ‘Why do you always presume he’s done something?’

‘Oh. I dunno, Lex.’ Evie replies, her tone heavy with sarcasm. I can hear her sucking angrily on her cigarette before she blows out an endless stream of smoke. ‘Maybe because he always ends up in my bad books? What’s up?’

‘Can we meet for a coffee later? I’ve had some strange news.’

‘Strange news as in you’re terminally ill, or strange news as in some seminal indie band that we used to worship at the student union have split up?’

I laugh, trying not to spray crumbs over my white shirt. She always cheers me up, no matter what. She is utterly stubborn, never backwards about coming forwards and a drama queen through and through. And I adore her.

‘I’m not dying!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s to do with work. I’ve been made redundant.’

‘But that’s wicked news!’

‘And there you have it in a nutshell. That’s why you’re my best mate.’

I switch off the Mac and check my phone again. Henry hasn’t been in touch all day and Susannah’s constant griping and sniffling in the background is getting on my shredded nerves. Barney has been her ever-present Kleenex-bearer, shooting me evils whenever he walks past, which seems to be often. Rob, on the other hand, is in seventh heaven, planning on visiting every Grand Prix race next year with his redundancy money, and buying a new car. I told him he should buy a Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder and we both giggled for a good minute, getting more black looks from the Barney and Susannah corner.

Seeing as all my projects have now been suspended as of yesterday, for the first time in ages I have nothing to do. At first, I hastily check my emails – something I would have never dared to do before. After sneaking a few glances around the office to see if anyone has noticed, I soon get on with doing as little as possible, emailing long-neglected friends with my news. Most of them write back instantly with an overwhelmingly positive response, which is really heartening, but it makes me realise that I need to get out and see them more.

I even call Mum on my lunch break, during which time I actually leave the office and sit outside in the summer sunshine, something I don’t usually get a chance to do. The temperature’s not exactly balmy considering it’s late Summer, but it beats sitting in that bloody grey cubicle. Having been so preoccupied with telling everyone else my news, I’d completely forgotten to tell the most important person.

‘Mum? It’s me, Lex.’

‘Hello darling! Listen, I’ve just got the girls round for a life-class with Giovanni, so can I call you back later?’

My mother is an artist, slightly bohemian and obsessed with period drama. She lives in a tiny village in Hampshire where she seems to have a new cat every time I visit. ‘The girls’ are her village friends, a motley bunch of widowers and divorcees who liked nothing better than an afternoon of tea, cake and painting naked young men – not in that order. Giovanni must be the latest life class victim.

‘Giovanni?’

‘You know Giovanni! The waiter from Bella Pasta, on the high street? Lovely bone structure.’

‘You mean Gavin. From number 26?’

There is a hurried shushing noise. ‘Darling! You know he doesn’t like being called that. Must dash. Bye!’

***

I walk the short distance to the coffee house and smile when I see Evie in our usual corner, utterly engrossed in the latest copy of the NME. It’s only been a week since I last saw her but her hair is a different colour - white blonde with a massive slash of hot-pink at the front. I can barely keep up with her hairstyles, looking up at my mousey fringe with disdain before I pull out a chair.

‘Hello, you!’ She rises quickly and gives me a tight hug.

‘Hi petal.’ I reply, giving her a good squeeze back. ‘Loving the hair.’

‘Ta very much. They always say gentlemen prefer blondes so I’m testing the theory.’

‘How’s it working out for you?’

‘Thus far, not too badly… I ordered you the usual.’ she adds.

‘Cheers. I need one… bit of an odd day.’ I pull out a chair and slump down onto it while tossing my rucksack on the floor. Henry bought me an enormous knock-off Marc Jacobs handbag for Christmas, but I never use it, preferring my scruffy rucksack with its dinky pockets. I fill her in on all the details, pausing every now and then to take a sip of my latte. Evie’s even brought me a massive slice of my favourite carrot cake, which is to die for. I try not to talk with my mouth full.

‘For the first time in ages, I actually did nothing at work today. And I thought it would be fun, but the time just dragged by. How am I going to last another three weeks?’

‘But Lex! This is fabulous! You hated working with all those boring buggers… and… don’t take this the wrong way, but you weren’t exactly winning any awards with your mortgage adverts, were you? I know I always bang on about this, but you are such a wasted talent. You’re a brilliant designer – always have been.’

See, she’s a great friend.

‘Thanks Vee.’ I blush. ‘… I just wish Henry shared your opinion.I can’t understand why he’s being so unpleasant about the whole thing? I think he’s a little panicked at the thought of me being out of work, but I’m honestly not worried. I know I can find something else.’

‘Can I be frank?’ She asks, draining her large espresso before placing her cup firmly on the table.

‘Go on…. You usually are.’

She sighs. ‘You deserve better. You know what I’d do? And I’ve been thinking about this all day.I’d go travelling with the money. You could go backpacking round the world! Visit your auntie in Australia, or go island-hopping in Greece, or maybe visit New York and go to all those fancy museums you always go on about. Or, and this is my best idea yet, you could go snowboarding for six months. How often does that much money land in your lap at our age?’

‘Going off travelling by myself?’ I reply, dipping my spoon into my mug and licking some of the foam off. The thought of using the money to go abroad had honestly never crossed my mind. ‘Nope… too scary. Look at all our friends from Uni. Married, babies…’

‘…Divorced…’ Evie interrupts. ‘Look, take Henry travelling with you if you must.’

I nudge her arm gently and grin. ‘Don’t be such a killjoy… Just because you’re foot-loose and living the single life in the big city, like Carrie Bradshaw without the big nose. I need to settle down with Henry, otherwise I’ll be stuck in some rented hovel for the rest of my days, rueing the day I blew so much money on a glorified holiday. That’s what the sensible side of my brain is telling me.’

Evie snorts. ‘The sensible side of my brain hasn’t been active since 1982 when I decided against wearing a bright pink Ra-ra skirt to Mandy Bell’s birthday party.’

‘You were seven.’

‘Well, there you go. ‘Sensible’ is a dirty word in my book and that’s never done me any harm. I don’t have a mortgage. I sure as shit don’t have a pension. Look at Sam – he’s never worried about all that shit and he’s doing really well. Which reminds me… what are you doing this weekend?’

‘No plans. Trying to get Henry to talk to me, I suppose.’

Evie snorts. ‘Do you fancy driving up to the SnowDome? Sam’s organised this freestyle session for a local charity and it might take your mind off things? You need a change of scene. Besides, it might do you some good to remind yourself that before you settled down into middle-aged boringness, you used to be cool…. Ow!’

I punch her hard on the arm this time. ‘I haven’t seen your brother for ages. How’s his skate shop going?’

‘Sammy will always act like a 14-year-old punk, even if he did just turn 40. But as far as the shop goes, it’s doing incredibly well. Dad’s