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looked more fanciable. The day
had been perfect. The evening had been perfect. Then it all went wrong when he said something that turned the blood in my veins to stone.
    There was a long prequel in which he declared me to be the most ‘awesome, sexy and wonderful woman’ he’d ever met. How I’d made him happier in eight months than
he’d been in his life. How he’d been keeping a lid on his feelings but could do so no longer.
    All the time I was thinking: God, I think he might be about to suggest something really outlandish, like going on holiday together.
    As he continued talking, I’ll tell you what was going through my head:
A week’s a bit long, but I’d consider three days in Rome. Or maybe Barcelona, because you can get an
easyJet flight there—
    ‘Emma, did you hear me?’
    ‘Of course! Where were you thinking?’
    He looked taken aback – and unnervingly happy.
    ‘Well, we’d have to take a look at a few venues but . . . does that mean it’s a yes?’
    Then something clicked. Nobody could be
that
happy about the prospect of a dirty weekend, even if I promised to go on a spending spree at Agent Provocateur and take a course of
pole-dancing lessons in advance.
    With my heart hammering, I shoved my hands in my pockets and found a packet of mints Dad had left in my car at the weekend, feeling a sudden urge to put one in my mouth. ‘You’re not
talking about going away, are you?’ I mumbled.
    ‘Emma, I don’t care
where
we do it, I only care
that
we do it.’
    ‘Do . . . what?’ I asked, praying his answer would be ‘snow-boarding’.
    He sank to one knee and uttered four words that killed my blissful notion that what we had together was frivolous, thoroughly enjoyable and just a bit of fun.
    ‘Will you marry me?’
    I nearly choked on my Fox’s Glacier mint.

Chapter 9
    My bid to tackle the list gets off to a flying start.
    By Saturday, the day of Cally’s thirtieth birthday, I have a polo taster lesson booked, although it’s not until the end of September. I cancelled this morning’s hair
appointment so that I can ‘grow hair long’, as the list puts it, despite my awareness that aspiring to look like Daryl Hannah in
Splash
by December might be ambitious. And I
Googled various Michelin-starred restaurants – even though, as I did so, something hit home.
    Completing a list that features everything from the Northern Lights to jumping out of a plane (although I’ll need a personality transplant to go through with that one) will not be
cheap.
    I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and log on to my bank, flicking onto the second account that’s been virtually untouched since it was set up when I was a little girl.
    It contains five hundred and seventy-five pounds, money I’ve never considered actually spending before. You might think that’s odd. Except this was money left to me by my mum when
she died – the rest of her estate was put in trust with Dad – and I’ve never really had a clue what she would’ve wanted me to do with it.
    But now has to be as good a time as any to use it – even if that sum alone probably won’t be enough. Some of my aspirations are seriously expensive and going into my thirties with a
bankruptcy under my belt isn’t part of the plan.
    My immediate priority needs to be to cut back – even if I’m not one of life’s natural cutter-backers.
    That Money Saving Expert bloke leaves me cold: if I spent all the recommended time switching energy suppliers, swapping 0% credit card deals and researching ISAs, I wouldn’t have time for
full-time employment – and that’d be
terrible
for my finances.
    Still, I hit the supermarket in the afternoon and fill my trolley with own-brand goods, trying not to think about what a £1.49 washing powder called Supasoapa might do to my skin, or the
fact that the Cheddar-style cheese looks capable of removing chalk from a blackboard.
    The evening’s festivities, however, don’t do a great deal for my