Through the window I watched him leave. That’s my husband, I told myself, marvelling at how unreal it seemed. Soon to be ex-husband, and more than a decade of my life is going with him. As he walked out of the short drive and became hidden by the hedge, I was ambushed by an inferno of white-hot fury. Go on, I wanted to empty my lungs and bellow, fuck off back to Truffle Woman. As quickly as it had appeared, the rush of rage receded, and once again I felt heavy and kind of dead.

Helen was the only one who approved of me going to LA.

‘Smart work,’ she said. ‘Just think of the men. Lovely ridey surfey types.’ She groaned. ‘Christ. Tanned, sun-bleached hair all tangled and salty, six-pack stomachs, muscly thighs from staying up on the surfboards –’ She paused and announced, ‘Jesus, I might come with you!’

And then it hit me: I was single. I was a single woman in my thirties. I’d spent my twenties in the safe cocoon of marriage and I had no idea what it was like to be on my own. Of course I knew about singletons, about the culture of the thirty-something single person. I’d heard the statistics: a thirty-something woman had a better chance of being abducted by aliens (I think) than receiving a proposal of marriage. I had watched my single sisters and friends pursue true love, and had joined in wondering where all the good men were when things didn’t work out. But the interest I’d taken had been purely theoretical. I’d wondered where all the good men were, but I hadn’t really cared. I hadn’t been smug – at least, not consciously – but there’s no doubt that pride comes before a fall.

I had no man now. I was no different from Emily or Sinead or anyone. Although, in fairness, I didn’t want a man. I no longer wanted to be with Garv, but I was blocked. I couldn’t make the necessary leap of imagination to being with anyone else.

It was then that I had my second normal thought: My life is over. That was the only thing I was sure of, the one fixed fact in an uncertain world. I clung on to this knowledge because, strangely, it gave me comfort.

Immigration took for ever. Finally, it was my turn to hand my passport over to the big, unpleasant guy at the desk. (And it made no difference which desk you picked: somewhere there must be a factory where they manufacture these men.) As he ran a disgusted eye over me, I found myself wondering if he was married or divorced. Not – let me hasten to add – because I fancied him. I’d wondered it about the woman I was sitting next to on the plane, too, and I’m fairly sure I didn’t fancy her. I just didn’t want to be the only one…

My speculation came to an abrupt halt when he barked, ‘Reason for visiting the United States?’

‘Vacation.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘With a friend in Santa Monica.’

‘And your friend in Santa Monica? What does he do?’

‘She is a scriptwriter.’

And I swear to God, Mr Narky changed before my eyes. He sat up straight, stopped narrowing his eyes contemptuously, and suddenly he was as sweet as candy.

‘Oh yeah? Someone buy her script?’

‘Universal.’ Or was it Paramount? But then they’d sidelined it…

‘So is there a part for me in this movie?’ he joked. Only thing is, I’m not sure he was joking.

‘Dunno,’ I said nervously.

‘You dunno,’ he sighed, reaching for his stamp and giving my passport a good thump with it.

I was in!

*

And there was Emily, tapping her (beautiful, Japanese-style besandalled) foot impatiently. God, it was so good to see her.

‘How are you? Psychotic with jet lag?’ she asked sympathetically.

‘Certifiable. I believe I watched three films on the plane and I couldn’t tell you the first thing about any of them. One of them might have been about a dog.’

‘Gimme that.’ Emily positioned herself at the helm of my trolley – or should I say ‘cart’? – and pushed it briskly towards the airport car park.

The heat hit like God had opened a huge oven door. ‘Lord,’ I reeled.

‘Not far,’ she encouraged.

‘Hey, look!’ I was distracted from the faint-making heat by a bunch of holy-roller, culty types, clustered on a patch of grass, wearing turquoise robes, shaking tambourines and chanting away goodoh. I half-suspected they’d been laid on specially for me – Welcome to LA – the way in Hawaii they get some girl to put one of those garlands of flowers around your neck.

Emily was unimpressed. ‘Plenty more where they came from. Get in.’ She opened the car door. ‘The air-con will be on in a minute.’

I’d never been to Los Angeles before, but I’d have known it anywhere. It was all so familiar – the sixteen-lane freeways, the tall, skinny palm trees, the adobe-style houses. The skyline was low and extended for ever – it was nothing at all like Chicago.

Every few blocks we passed mini-malls which advertised pet-grooming, nail salons, gun shops, surveillance equipment, dentists, tanning salons, more pet-grooming…

‘You could groom a lot of pets in this town,’ I remarked dreamily. It was the jet lag. I was gone a bit mental from it.

Emily had no time for such nonsense. There was a story and she wanted to hear it. ‘So what’s up with you and Garv?’

I had a very real urge to jump from the speeding car. I plumped for, ‘We were making each other miserable, so we’ve called it a day.’

‘Yeah, but –’ I could hear fear in her voice. ‘You haven’t actually split up?. You’re just taking a break from each other? ‘Cos of everything?’

What was this conspiracy? Why would nobody accept it was finished?

‘We have split up.’ My right arm began to tingle. ‘It’s all over.’

‘God.’ She sounded terribly upset. ‘But you’re not going to… get divorced?’

A wash of shame hit me. ‘What else would we do?’

‘Have you actually started proceedings?’

‘Not yet. We’re waiting until I get back.’ With those words, a fact I’d known intellectually transformed itself into something personal. ‘I’ll be a divorcee!’

‘Um… if you get divorced, you probably will.’ Emily threw me an anxious glance. ‘Is that a shock?’

‘No, it’s just… It’s just hit home.’ All the same, it had hardly been part of my life plan. ‘A divorcee.’ I tried out the word again and my ever-present sense of failure intensified. Striving for humour, I said, ‘You know what that means? I’ll have brassy blonde hair and make a show of myself at family parties, drinking too much and dancing provocatively with younger men.’