Read an exclusive extract from the gripping psychological suspense crime thriller by Adele Parks, First Wife’s Shadow, now out in paperback!

Prologue

The body was pinned up against the tree. Dead. Obviously dead. No RIP here. The detective didn’t see many RIPs in his line of work. He saw tortured souls; people who had endured violence – brought down by their own hand or the hand of others – disaster or just plain old bad luck. With disaster and bad luck there wasn’t even anyone to blame. It was nuanced, and the fifty-plus, portly copper who had seen it all continued to wrestle with the question of which was more brutal, more devastating: not having anyone to blame or having a poker-hot focus of fury.

The body was mangled from the waist downwards. The glassy eyes had seen everything they were ever going to. All that was going to happen in this life, had. For good or bad, it was done. The DC imagined he could hear the screech of tyres, the crunch as metal twisted, the sound of glass shattering. Nonsense, of course. All that had occurred hours before he arrived on the scene. If there had been frantic honking, horrified realisation, determined destruction, that was finished now.

Now, it was a matter of first responders, flashing lights, debris scattered, a stunned silence.

As they slowly rolled the car back, the body slumped for- ward over the bonnet. Something flickered on the face, just the hint of early-morning light. No life, or afterlife. The detective did not believe in ghosts. He knew people could be haunted, though. He saw plenty of that. People tormented by their past, the mistakes they’d made, the opportunities they’d missed, the people they’d hurt. And maybe worse still, the DC knew that some people lived their entire lives haunted by their future. Fearful of the mistakes they might make, the opportunities they might miss.

1

February

Emma

I believe in routine. Discipline. Hard work. It makes me unfashionable but successful. So I say, forget the haters. I have rules and routines for a reason. When they are abandoned, things start to fall apart. Children of alcoholics know this better than most.

I get up at 5.08 a.m. every day of the working week, and it takes me nine minutes to dress, get downstairs, turn off the alarms, swallow a vitamin, fill my Hydro Flask with water and unlock the front door before my feet hit the path. I run for the remaining forty-three minutes of the hour, which means I normally run five miles. The average woman runs at a rate of 6.5 miles per hour. Do the maths. I run faster than average.

I run in all weathers, all seasons. I live in woodlands, so a treadmill can’t compete. Fresh air in my lungs; the slap, sting or spike of the elements makes me feel alive. Obviously, running in the summer months is a delight – who doesn’t love a sunrise? – but I run in the dark months too, when the sun seems never to rise, but instead, at best, only manages to resentfully loll somewhere behind the clouds of a gunmetal sky. My friends say that running through a forest in the pitch black alone on a February morning is stupid. I like to think of it as an opportunity. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Once back at my house, I check the headlines, then spend twelve minutes practising sun salutations because cardio is vital for the heart but I don’t want my bones to crumble and yoga helps with strength. People think I’m extreme. I’m not, I’m balanced. I shower, perform all the ablutions necessary to try to keep the ageing process at bay, and check the social feeds for mentions of AirBright, the wind harvesting company of which I am chief executive officer.

I dress, then prepare a kale, celery and parsley smoothie. It tastes awful but it’s full of vitamins. I scan my emails but don’t open them unless it’s something from my chief financial officer or public relations director. Maybe, if there’s time, while drinking my disgusting green gloop at the breakfast bar, I’ll read any private texts or messages. My friends, Heidi and Gina, often send me one-liners letting me know what their kids – my godchildren – are up to. That always brings a smile to my face. On days when I need to go to the London office, I’m out the door by 6.32 a.m. I drive to the station – it’s on average a nine-minute journey, but I allow some flex for tractors on the narrow lanes – and catch the 6.49 train. I aim to be at my desk in London by 7.45. Seventy-five minutes before I’m contractually obliged to be there, ninety minutes before any of my exec team show up.

This has been my routine for as long as I can remember. There has been some variation on the length of the commute and the flavour of the smoothie. The seniority of my position in the companies I’ve worked for has evolved, but in essence – the runs, the arrival at work before other employees – those things have been a constant. I stick to this routine even on my birthday. I am forty-seven.

This statement apparently surprises people. They gasp and say I don’t look forty-seven. Really they are thinking, ‘Shit, all that effort, all those years, is it worth it?’ because most people are a bit lazy and incredibly undisciplined and like to get by doing as little as possible; my routine horrifies them. They don’t say what they are thinking out loud, though, maybe because people are generally quite polite or maybe because most of the individuals I mix with work for me; everyone wants to stay on my good side. They don’t have to say that they think I put too much energy into everything; I see it on their embarrassed faces: a complicated mix of pity that I try so hard and resentment that it works. The thing is, I’m very realistic about the hand I was dealt and I play. I’m not special, I’m not exceptionally clever or good-looking. I don’t have an amazing talent like painting, or writing, or dancing, or singing that might make me stand out from the masses. My talent is my discipline. I’m rational, thorough, careful. I earn a healthy six-figure salary as a result. Lucky me.

As I’m never openly challenged about whether the relentless effort and focus is worthwhile, I haven’t really had to consider what my answer might be. It is a lot of effort for thin thighs, I admit, but I’m also investing in my future: notably a longer, healthier one. Not being a mother or a wife, I can’t assume (or even hope) that there will be someone to look after me when I age. I will have to pay for care, and so being as healthy as possible is just a wise choice.

But. Well. Last night.

I shake my head. What am I thinking? One swallow does not make a summer, and equally one shag does not make a future. Although technically it was not one shag, it was three. And he did talk about our future. And it was not simply a shag, it was . . .

I have no idea how to finish that sentence.

If I say special, I am unrecognisable even to myself.

The fact is that this morning there was something new that interrupted my routine. Before I slipped out the door, I popped back into my bedroom and looked at the man sleeping in my bed. He was lying on his stomach, clutching a pillow, which sounds more effeminate than the reality. He’s a big, hairy, muscular man and his masculinity – which is almost brutish, certainly exotic, in my bedroom – caused me to silently gasp with surprise. Is it ludicrous to think there might be someone who will look after me in the future? Someone I can look after? I watched him breathe in, out, in, out. My air. His. He’s a miracle. He’s a big, sweaty, sometimes brilliant, sometimes stupid, agreeable, argumentative, sexy, stubborn miracle.

And now he’s mine.

2

January

I became the CEO of Britain’s biggest wind harvesting company, AirBright, seven years ago. When I was awarded this position, some people in my industry muttered that hiring a woman to run the company was not much more than a PR stunt, a cynical move by the executives to look modern by ticking a diversity-hire box. Fifty-one per cent of the UK population are female; despite this fact, women are considered to be diversity hires in positions of power. I trained as an accountant but still struggle with that maths.

Whatever. People can say what they like. In childhood, having an alcoholic dad and then after everything that happened, I learnt that people talk about me regardless of my behaviour, actions or even the truth, so I decided long ago to do what works for me. It’s the only way to stay sane. What works for me right now is getting on with doing my little bit to save the planet. I like to think I was the best candidate for the job and I do it well. End of. I’m a hands-on boss but I’m also respectful of the expertise of my heads of department. It was the director of marketing who suggested my face ought to be seen more, which is how I find myself, on this cold January day, standing in an enormous, echoey conference centre in Edinburgh, shaking hands with numerous climate-concerned delegates, underneath a branded sign that reads: Wind Energy is Big Clean Energy.

I notice him at a molecular level immediately. That in itself is interesting.

He’s tall, over six foot, and has great teeth and a mop of dark curly hair. He’s unequivocally attractive: symmetrical, a strong chin. Some people find that off-putting; I’m not as subtle. Obviously handsome works for me. He’s wearing faded jeans that suggest they are faded through wear, not bought that way as a fashion statement, and a thick-knit navy jumper. He is carrying a battered leather rucksack, good quality but aged. There’s a hole in the shoulder of his jumper. I can see his flesh peeking through and I have to fight the urge to lace my finger into the hole, to touch his skin. This is weird, and especially weird from me; I’m not a tactile person. Despite his height and good looks, there is something about him that doesn’t quite fill the space in the way he is surely entitled to. He has a level of reluctance, an air that suggests he leans away from life. That sense of reservation is as interesting as his good looks. His eyes whip above my head; he reads the ill-considered marketing slogan and smirks involuntarily.

‘Don’t bother with the flatulence jokes. I’ve heard every possible one already. You’re better than that,’ I say, before he has the chance to offer a word.

I know my comment is ballsy. Flirty. I am always the former, but finding myself being the latter is a surprise to me. You’re better than that. A blatant seal of approval. An invitation. To what? He’s at least a decade younger than I am, possibly more. What am I thinking? Yet there is something vibrant between us. At least, I hope it is between us. Surely this can’t be a one-way thing. I can almost touch it, taste it.

These are nebulous thoughts for rational, sensible me to have. I’m normally a fan of the quantifiable; however, there is something here that I’d forgotten existed. I gave up dating two years ago. I was too busy with work, and besides, I was exhausted with shoddy encounters that generated nothing other than a confirmation of the fact that people lie. I became bored by the countless, endless disappointments: men who turned out to be shorter, balder, fatter or – worse – duller than advertised, so I turned off that part of my life, that part of me. Even before that, this sort of raw animal attraction was as rare as hen’s teeth. I think I can count on one hand how many times I’ve experienced it. Yet here it is. Loud and clear. A warm swell of interest, attraction. Lust.

‘I won’t make jokes about your marketing if you don’t make jokes about this.’ He points to the Access All Areas pass that he is wearing on a lanyard around his neck.

I don’t smile, although I want to. It’s a good retort. And yes, I think he is flirting with me, but the AAA pass means he is press. I have shareholders and board members to answer to, employees that I need to offer a role model to; I must watch my step. A man as attractive as this one will know how to turn on the charm to get a story. Most likely he’s angling for an exclusive profile piece; he’s probably writing something about women in power. I’ll look like a prize fool if I’m too friendly and something I say is taken out of context. I’ve seen peers make shamefaced trips to HR, forced to make abject public apologies, being trolled or cancelled, not because they did something illegal or malicious but because of a careless word. Joking that I’d like to access all his areas would be momentarily amusing but professionally suicidal. I’m always very careful about what I say and how I behave. I’m considered by nature and cautious by necessity. Suddenly this outlook seems an inconvenience, a shame. I want to flirt with him.

I don’t. I keep my face impassive.

If he is disappointed by my cool demeanour or concerned that he has crossed a line and his joke has landed badly, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He smiles pleasantly, shoots out his hand for me to shake. I want to feel the weight and warmth of him. I want to know if his grip is firm; will he linger a fraction of a second longer than he ought?

It is.

He does. Lovely.

‘Matthew Charlton,’ he declares. ‘Emma Westly,’ I reply.

He throws out a fast smile. ‘Really, you don’t need to introduce yourself. Your face is on half the conference marketing. You’re the keynote speaker.’

I like it that he owns up to knowing who I am. Some people are shy about doing so, and that creates an unnecessary barrier of complexity. He is confident enough to admit he’s impressed by me, or if that is going too far, too quickly, he is at least aware of me. Also lovely. I do a lot of keynote speaking. I spoke at the UN Biodiversity Conference in Montreal last year. I’m on an advisory committee that steered the 77th Session of the UN General Assembly on Environmental Matters. I’ve spoken at the last three COP conventions – Bonn, Madrid and Glasgow – in front of prime ministers and presidents. I know my stuff; I believe in what I’m selling. A future for us all.

‘You’re speaking at three-thirty this afternoon, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘I’m looking forward to it. In fact I’d go so far as to say you’re the reason I’m here. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Public speaking does not intimidate me, so I’m surprised to note that suddenly I’m nursing a rare lick of nerves. The thought of his eyes on me as I stand on the stage causes a whisper of something to flutter in my stomach.

I want to impress.

3

When I walk onto the stage, I feel and hear the auditorium hum with excitement, scepticism, challenge and support.

A thousand delegates are in attendance. I can’t see beyond the first three rows; after that there is just blackness. He is sitting on the second row, fourth chair in from the far left. Keen. He wants me to see him. My eyes rest on him for a moment. I don’t change my expression or acknowledge him, but he knows I know he is there. Is this a little cat and mouse? I think so, and although I’m out of practice and have arguably never been especially good at playing games, it seems natural to me. This is necessary to make the beginning of something – anything – notable, fun.

Outwardly, I deliver the speech with my usual calm confidence, infusing it with the necessary sense of urgency when required, tingeing it with threat but ultimately leaving things on a note of positivity. That’s my style. My belief. We can make a difference. Saving our planet is going to require hard work and effort; however, if we all work together – by which I mean everyone, from country leaders to coffee drinkers, heads of industry to those in post rooms – then there is hope. It’s a matter of collective responsibility.

I tell my audience about the initiatives my company are fast-tracking, how we’re contributing towards the aim to be net zero. That’s what I am here for, to willy-wave about my company’s part in saving the world; it keeps the share price buoyant. It’s necessary to start with the horrors – the floods, the melting icecaps, the deforestation, the famines. We’re a population used to binge- watching streamer shows; we expect a lot of drama in the first ten minutes of a performance. However, I never want to terrify and alienate. That would be unhelpful. So I highlight positive steps that are taking place across the globe: the initiatives of other companies and governments that are committed to change. As usual, I conclude by promising that there is a future for our grandchildren and even for their grandchildren if we act quickly enough.

As I leave the stage, there is resounding applause, some people stand up. He’s on his feet before anyone else and creates the momentum for the standing ovation. He seems animated, electrified. I don’t let my gaze linger on him, and I remind myself that the ovation is for my company’s work, not me personally. I’m a cog, that’s all. Still, it’s a buzz. I don’t have children or grandchildren, but I might be a tiny part of saving the planet for those who do, and that is massive.

The delegates and speakers are invited to a drinks reception that starts in half an hour’s time and is designed to soak up the couple of hours before dinner. When I first saw this on my agenda, I decided I would give it a miss. I know how those things generally go. At best, I’ll be cornered by an earnest ecowarrior who wants to preach to the converted; at worst, I might encounter an aggressive climate-change denier. It is far wiser and more time-efficient to return to my hotel room and plough through emails. I’m not a networker, I’m a grafter. There is little to be gained by pressing flesh, rubbing shoulders and appearing accessible. Better to leave the delegates with the stormy, solid impression I made on the stage.

But now I feel differently.

I know that if I go to the bar, Matthew Charlton will find me, and I want exactly that. It’s curious behaviour for me, but maybe I deserve a treat. I’ve been working really hard recently. We’re buying a company that needs to be amalgamated into AirBright. The restructure will have an impact on systems, staff and physical space; it’s a lot, and we’re just at the beginning of the process. I want to indulge the undeniable frisson of excitement he’s sparked, just for fun. I use the thirty minutes to dash to my room to freshen up and check emails marked urgent, then I’m back in the bar at 17.05. Not what anyone would call fashionably late, but I hope not excruciatingly obviously keen either.

He is leaning against the bar, gaze trained on the entrance.

Our eyes clash immediately and I head towards him.

‘I didn’t know what to order for you,’ he says, waving at two glasses of sparkling water. I like this. He presumed I would join him for a drink, but he didn’t presume to do anything cringey like order a glass of champagne. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy drinking champagne, but not at work and not with men I’ve just met.

‘Water is perfect.’

‘Shall we find a seat.’ It’s not a question as such, more of an imperative. He immediately picks up his glass of water and his rucksack and steps away from the bar, glancing about, looking for a table. I’ve been on my feet all day, and although high heels at work are thankfully a thing of the past, I would like to sit down. And yes, I can’t deny that being ensconced away from the throng and with him sounds ideal.

We find a small round table and two comfortable chairs in the far corner of the room. Most of the delegates are clinging to the bar and therefore it’s quiet here. Perfect.

‘So you’re press? Who do you write for?’ I ask, the moment we sit down. I need to know so I can evaluate what he wants. A story? Me?

‘I don’t write for anyone. I’m not press as such, I’m a freelance photographer. The Access All Areas pass is something a friend blagged for me. I understand it entitles a person to a free drink at dinner tonight and the right to jump the queue in the canteen.’

I’m relieved. If he’s not press, he doesn’t want a story. I want to beam, but instead I say sardonically, ‘Great perks. Have you exercised the queue-jumping privilege?’

‘No, I’m too polite.’

I smile. ‘So who are you freelancing for? What’s your brief?’ ‘No one has commissioned me to be here. My plan is to take some great shots and then try to sell them to any of the papers, or put them on the websites that let people buy images for presentations and so on. You know Shutterstock, Getty and the like.’

I nod. I am aware of those services. My own marketing department often uses them. It’s immediately apparent that Matthew isn’t earning big bucks.

‘Have you taken any great shots?’

He reaches into his rucksack and pulls out his camera. After a few clicks and whirrs, I find myself looking at images on a 5×3 cm preview screen on his SLR. Matthew leans close to me as he flicks through the photos he’s taken. His body isn’t touching mine, but I can feel the heat of him, smell his aftershave, and under that a note of sweat that I find strangely appealing. They are good, clear shots. Vibrant. They capture the subject’s emotion and animation whilst managing to be flattering – not an easy task. Often a photograph of someone speaking makes them look like they’ve entered a gurning competition.

I am the subject. There are at least a dozen photos of me delivering my speech.

Just as I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable and wondering if he’s a crazy stalker, we come to photographs of this morning’s speakers: Gina McCarthy, a renowned specialist on air quality who served as the first White House National Climate Advisor, and Jim McNeill, a British polar explorer. There are at least nine or ten shots of each of them, which negates the stalker concern. There are also many others of delegates looking earnest, interested, sceptical or even, in one case, thoroughly bored. ‘Is he napping?’ I ask with a laugh.

‘Yes, but don’t worry, that wasn’t taken during your lecture. I promise your audience were rapt.’

‘You have some great shots. A cut above the usual conference photographer.’

He smiles, but not easily; it’s a tight expression and I regret my comment. It sounds patronising. I am genuinely impressed. I’m usually rather unpleasantly surprised by images of myself. I always look a little older than I expect to. A little more worn in. In these shots I look strong, determined, authoritative. It’s impossible to say as much without sounding oddly vain.

A silence falls across the table and I want to shoo it away. I consider asking him how he chooses which conferences to freelance at, but it all seems a bit impersonal, and that’s not the note I want to strike with him. I’m grateful when he makes the next comment, even if it is still work-related.

‘You were really impressive up there on the podium.’ ‘Thank you.’

‘It must be quite something to be part of the solution.’ ‘It certainly makes going to work more compelling.’

He shakes his head in something like awe, certainly admiration. ‘You seemed so relaxed when presenting. I’m not sure I could do anything like that. I like hiding behind my camera.’ ‘I’m normally very relaxed, yes. I believe what I’m saying about working towards a smart, decarbonised, decentralised energy system. I know my facts, so I don’t have to rehearse.’ ‘Normally?’

I had slipped the word in because it was honest, but also as a small play. I wanted him to pick it up. ‘I confess I was a little nervous today.’ I take a sip of water.

‘Because the delegation was so large?’

‘Because you were in the audience.’ I meet his eyes and smile slowly. ‘I wanted to make a good impression.’

‘Mission accomplished,’ he says with a grin, sitting back in his chair.

4

After that, the conversation flows effortlessly. We talk about the TV shows we both know, the podcasts that interest us. I tell him how much I enjoy running, and he says he likes hiking but doesn’t do it as often as he used to. When I did make the effort to go on dates, it was still with a mental checklist. Is he a psychopath? Is he a bigot? A Star Trek fan? These are all red flags for me. Everyone has a list now. It saves time, but it does kill chemistry.

We have chemistry.

The glorious strangeness of knowing someone is interested in that particular way – not because they have trawled count- less profiles swiping left, left, left, then right, based entirely on a selection of static (often filtered) images – is exciting. I feel lit up, and consequently I become more sparkling, funny, confident. We make one another laugh by recounting our worst experiences of meeting people at conferences. His stories centre around being relentlessly pursued by those enthusiastic delegates whose goal in life is to have their photo in the local paper.

‘One man wanted a more edgy corporate photo at an insurance conference and insisted the delegates recreate a mosh pit. To his credit, he’d given it some thought: he arrived with whistles and smiley-face T-shirts that he wanted people to wear.’

‘That sounds fun,’ I say, smiling. ‘Certainly not problematic.’ ‘Right, that’s what I thought at first, but he wanted to crowd- surf. We had to do about ten takes and people got tired. They dropped him.’ ‘Deliberately?’ I gasp.

‘Not sure. Anyway, he refused to be derailed from his aim. He insisted I travel with him in the ambulance and “carry on snapping”.’

‘Did he make it into the local paper?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I hope so. He deserved to after all that.’

‘My worst experience was when I was mistaken for my PA, Edward, and Edward was mistaken for the CEO. I guess the speaker was listed as E. Westly,’ I confess.

‘And the conference organiser made the assumption that the man must hold the more senior role,’ Matthew guesses.

‘Correct. Despite Edward being twenty years my junior.’ ‘And when was the mistake identified?’

‘When they tried to push me off the stage and drag Edward on.’

By talking about the worst experiences of meeting people at these types of events, we are of course telling one another that this experience is pretty good. One of the best. We swap to wine, sharing a bottle of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc. Matthew tells me that he’s recently moved back to the UK from New York. He was born in New Zealand and brought up in South Africa. ‘My dad was a diplomat.’

‘Wow, that sounds glamorous.’

‘I suppose it does.’ He grimaces slightly theatrically, in a way that suggests he’s often told this story and knows how to counter the suggestion that he was brought up in an overly privileged way. ‘As a kid, I just remember wishing my parents didn’t have so many functions in the evening, that they’d stay home, maybe read me a story, tuck me in like other kids’ parents did. Plus, I really wanted the same accent as everyone else at school.’

‘You don’t have an accent at all,’ I comment.

‘That was the point. All the other kids sounded like they were New Zealanders or South Africans. My parents wanted me to sound BBC English. It was hard.’

I try not to react. I have learnt how to hold my face in an impassive expression, not to judge people’s childhood resent- ments. Experience has shown me that most people have a minor gripe: they felt another sibling was favoured; they weren’t allowed a TV in their room; they were made to play sport to an exhausting level to realise a parent’s unfulfilled ambition. I can always trump it. I wish I couldn’t.

Matthew continues. ‘I longed for a sibling. Maybe if I’d had one, I wouldn’t have felt so lonely.’ He sighs, and I do feel a tiny bit sorry for him. I can empathise with loneliness, but I’d have given anything to have parents who dragged me from one country to another. ‘Do you have siblings?’ he asks.

‘A younger brother.’ I don’t offer any more. I hope he moves on. If he doesn’t, and if I’m honest, then the mood is going to be ruined.

‘And what about your parents?’ It’s an open question. I could dodge it, but I decide it’s best to get it on the table and out of the way, although I am aware I’m about to land the least flirtatious sentence in the history of dating.

‘They’re dead.’

‘Oh, I’m so very sorry. How sad.’ He doesn’t look away embarrassed or mumble. I’m impressed that he’s offered two sentences rather than the more usual two-word platitude people generally manage. ‘When did they die?’ he asks.

‘I was twelve and my brother was ten.’ ‘How?’

‘A car accident.’ I take a large gulp of wine and glance around the room. I should be used to telling this story. I’ve delivered this fact about my life on dozens, probably hundreds of occasions. Over time, I’ve taught myself not to show any emotion about it, as I find that if I do so, it embarrasses whoever it is that has stumbled into the conversation about families. I’m so British that even when talking about the death of my parents, my greatest concern is making other people feel comfortable with it. I usually say something like ‘Oh, it was a long time ago’; sometimes I even joke, ‘Why are you sorry? It’s not like you planted the tree they ploughed into, did you?’ Gallows humour. ‘There was this crazy woman who stepped out into the road. Dad swerved to avoid her but ended up ploughing into a tree. He died immediately. My mother died eight hours later in hospital.’

Matthew does not do what most people do. He doesn’t look at his feet, turn away or turn the conversation. He reaches out and squeezes my fingertips with his own. His hand is warm; my fingers are always cold.

‘That must have been horrific. I’m sorry to hear you went through that, I really am. Dealing with the death of your most loved people at any age is horrendous, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like to endure that as a child.’ Tears unexpectedly nip at my eyes. I’m blindsided by his sincerity. ‘I get it,’ he adds. ‘I really do.’

‘You’ve lost your parents?’ I ask.

‘No, not my parents. My wife. She died last year.’

I draw in a sharp breath. Despite years of being on the receiving end of people’s response to such bleak news, I find I’m not sure how to handle it. I’m disappointed in myself, but the truth is, the thoughts going through my head right now are not for sharing. Matthew is in his mid-thirties, I’d guess. His wife obviously died before her time. It’s a horrible story. Awful. Completely tragic.

So it’s totally inappropriate that somewhere deep in my brain a little voice is saying, ‘This does mean he’s single, though. Every cloud has a silver lining.’

An outrageous thought.