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swept away by Casey’s solemn expression and our bleak seaside-in-winter surroundings.
    It’s a miserable grey day. The black clouds are rolling in ominously over the estuary, menacing spectres that appear to be coming for me, for my relationship. I have always thought of Ryan like the sun; summer is the season when he’s happiest as he can do everything he loves: sport, swimming, sailing, surfing. Summer is the beach; it’s eating cockles and sipping wine in the garden, it’s sailing out on the estuary or lying on a sun-soaked beach, just like where we had our first real kiss. In winter he seems to recede, diminish. Everything about him becomes paler, more withdrawn.
    I ask Casey again. ‘Do you think he’ll forgive me?’
    She takes my hand and looks at me with her sweeping lashes and enormous dark-brown eyes.
    ‘No, Molly,’ she says gently. ‘If you tell him what happened it will be over. But what I do think, and I know you don’t want to hear this, is maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, you know?’
    My stomach wrings with anguish until I feel like I can barely stand up. The pain travels up my body to my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe.
    ‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, babe,’ Casey says, ‘I know you love each other but you haven’t been happy for a long time. You went into that relationship so young – too young, and I know this is hard to hear because Ryan is the best guy there is. The BEST,’ she finishes emphatically.
    I sob into her shoulder. My body is bent awkwardly to create space between us. I want her comfort but I don’t want the physical closeness it requires; it makes me feel like I haven’t got this under control. I’ve never needed her help like this before and I want to pretend I still don’t. Because the moment I let myself succumb to her sympathies, I’m accepting that I’ve majorly screwed up. Casey has seen Ryan and I from the start and hearing this from her has crushed any lingering hope I had that I could work this out. All I’ve thought about since it happened last night is Ryan. Him. Us. How happy we’d been and how much I’ve taken it all for granted.
    Casey is still talking, but I’m not finding it as comforting as I’d hoped. If I’m honest, it feels weird being given relationship advice by her. It’s usually me who is helping her ; picking up the pieces after someone’s dumped her, dealing with the infinite fallout of her infidelities (she’s been the cheater, the cheated, but most often the Other Woman).
    ‘You know, it’s funny,’ she says thoughtfully – which is always dangerous. Thinking before speaking or acting is a rarity for Casey. ‘When we were teenagers you and Ryan were so different, I never thought you’d actually end up together . . . ’
    I gaze back at the ‘Pleasure Pier’ amusements. Casey and I spent many a happy weekend here as teenagers, playing the slots, eating candy floss and riding the attractions, but it feels depressingly bleak now.
    Then she speaks again. ‘I know being with a guy like Ryan helped your confidence when we were younger but you’re not a kid any more, babe, maybe you two have just grown up. And apart,’ she adds with a sideways glance at me.
    ‘There was nothing wrong with my self-esteem!’ I exclaim shrilly. ‘I was an incredibly confident teenager!’
    Casey tilts her head, somewhat patronizingly and folds her arms under her chest. She looks like a model, stood here on the windswept pier, her sleek black ponytail whipping around her face, fronds of hair sticking to her still-glossed lips. She is the best advert for Ugly Duckling to Swan I’ve ever seen. ‘C’mon, I know you acted all tough to protect me and to stop people thinking you cared, but you were totally desperate to be anyone other than yourself. Not that you had it as bad as me though.’ She giggles and nudges me. ‘Remember those glasses and braces? And my Greek facial-hair problem? Not to mention Mum’s obsession