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today!’
    ‘Oh jeez,’ she grimaces at my ski pants, and I don’t mean the sleek black kind, rather the bulky, extra-padded, ‘see you on the piste’ version.
    ‘Okay. Take a breath,’ she soothes. ‘There is clearly no competing with her on a physical level. Besides, when he saw you the first time you were in thermals and a sleeping bag, so really you look positively svelte in comparison.’
    ‘True.’
    ‘Besides … ’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘If they really have got something going, then you wouldn’t want his philandering pants anyway.’
    I sigh. ‘You’re right.’
    ‘I mean, if he gets itchy feet in a matter of days … ’
    ‘I know, I’m just so … ’ I try to identify exactly what I am feeling. ‘Mad. And embarrassed. And indignant!’ I sigh. ‘And baffled .’
    ‘Baffled?’
    ‘Of course it makes perfect sense that two such genetically stunning individuals join forces. There is a certain inevitability to their attraction. It’s not that … ’
    ‘What then?’
    I slump on the corner of the bed. ‘If Gilles is making “ voilà ” with a goddess like Annique, then why oh why was he kissing me last night?’

CHAPTER FOUR
    As I collect up my bag and head for the lift, it strikes me that this is the first non-Andrew man Laurie has coached me on.
    I must have been midway through my marriage when I first met her. It wasn’t exactly our finest hour. We were attending a fancy manor house wedding in Oxfordshire and I remember Andrew being testy from the first toast. It didn’t help that every other couple at our table were Fast-Trackers – one man had just got a great new job paying double his former salary, the woman to his left was pregnant with twins, another couple had just bought their dream home complete with walk-in closets and a trickly stream at the bottom of the garden … We might have been able to out-holiday every one of them, but as far as Andrew was concerned we were just shuffling along in the economy passenger lane of life. He didn’t like that. He was always very competitive.
    Anyway, towards the end of the evening we were on the dance floor – which actually used to be our happy place; it’s how we met – when my big toe was skewered by a fake Louboutin.
    The perpetrator might as well have taken a corkscrew from the bar and twisted it in, it hurt that much. Andrew was mortified, not at my injury but a) that I was causing a scene with my hopping and yelping and b) I was getting blood on Lord Fetherington-Ashby’s carpet on the way back to our table.
    ‘Christ! Who in their right mind dances in bare feet when everyone else is in dagger heels?’
    ‘I think the question is more who in their right mind dances in dagger heels?’ I countered. ‘Do you have any idea how little support they offer?’
    ‘Normal women, Krista. Normal women wear high heels, not these old lady concoctions,’ he taunted, dangling my shoe in front of my face.
    ‘I’ll have you know these are professional dance shoes!’ I snatched it back from his hand. ‘Look, you can bend the sole in half, they are so supple.’
    ‘Is that supposed to be a selling point?’
    ‘It is to me.’
    ‘And what kind of poor excuse is that for a heel? It looks like they stuck a matchbox on the end and sprayed it silver.’
    ‘Forgive me for wanting to be comfortable.’
    ‘It’s not about comfort, it’s about looking good. Everyone else is suffering, why can’t you?’
    I blinked back at him. ‘You want me to suffer?’
    ‘I just don’t understand why you have to be the odd one out!’
    ‘Why can’t I be like everyone else?’ I stated back to him.
    I knew what he was really getting at here. It wasn’t about the shoes at all.
    But he didn’t want to get into that so instead he huffed, ‘You brought this on yourself – find your own damn plaster.’
    At which point he turned and stomped off.
    I thought about crying, and potentially embarrassing him all the more, but then a face appeared from under the