Don't cry in front of him. Don't cry in front of him. Don't cry in front of him.

The minute I rang his doorbell I knew it was a mistake. It was still the middle of the night, for one thing. How much of a mental ex girlfriend cliché is that? Of course, I was doing it covered in bruises and a face caked in blood, so I like to think I deserved a few points for originality.

Though that actually made it worse, because the last thing I'd want is for him to think I was playing the sympathy card, or doing some damsel in distress thing. Okay, technically I was in a bit of distress, but I am no bloody damsel, which Craig knows fine. Being attacked had nothing to do with being dumped, it's just that I happen to have won the lottery not once but twice this week.

I should have told the taxi to take me to Granny's. She'd have been up. She says she doesn't need much sleep these days, so sits up reading and listening to her favourite podcasts most of the night. She's into that one about the guy whose dad wrote a porno book at the moment, and has taken to listening to it with a wee notebook in her lap so she can scribble down the funniest bits to read them down the phone to me, cackling with laughter.

Just as I was thinking I should give the taxi driver Granny's address instead, it pulled up at a modern block of flats and it was too late. The building was all sleek glass and metal and looked a bit like a Death Star that had lost its way so plonked itself down in the middle of Anniesland while it tried to get its intergalactic maps app going.

In fact, Anniesland? None of his pals live in Anniesland. Who was he staying with?

Moments later he answered the door and my heart sank into my toes.

"Linley."

Don't cry in front of him.

But he looked so... so Craig. Warm and crumpled and sleepy, his light brown hair sticking in every which direction, the smattering of freckles across his nose that make him look like he should be sent to bed with no tea even though he was the wrong side of thirty. All I could think of was how perfectly I fit into the crook of his shoulder, how familiar every contour of his muscles feel under my fingers. How well I know the soft hairs at the back of his neck, his smell, his —

Hold on a minute.

Where did he get that T shirt?

He always sleeps in a T shirt and boxers, but I had never seen that one before in my life. It was grey, with a dark blue drawing of a sailboat. A bit kitschy, even verging on the hipster. Not his normal style at all.

I had been sleep walking for days. Hadn't been dressed, never mind left the flat. Had barely eaten a thing and and he's gone out and bought himself a new T shirt? In fact now I thought about it, had he got a haircut?

"Christ Linley, what's happened to you? Do you need a doctor?"

As if you care.

"I've seen a doctor, thanks," I muttered with all the dignity I could muster. "I've just come from the hospital."

"... Right."

Then there was this awkward pause, as though that concluded our business of the evening and he expected me to thank him for his time and take my leave. But if he thought I was going to slink off into the night , he had another think coming.

I should have slunk off into the night.

"Tea?"

The kitchen was all polished steel and space-agey machines. As Craig produced some fancy looking monochrome mugs from somewhere, and filled them from one of those mad boiling water taps, I looked around in distaste. None of this was his style. He must be miserable, must be dying to get home, even if he was being all weird and awkward.

"You still take sugar?"

I stared at him askance, and he shrugged defensively. I realised belatedly that I'd been kind of prowling around the kitchen, scanning it all like a robot committing the floorplan to memory. Craig was watching me nervously as though I might pounce or something, so I stopped. This wasn't going as well as I might have hoped.

"Look," I blurted, as he handed me the tea and it hurt my sore fingers so I had to slam it on the spaceshippy counter. "Obviously, it's the middle of the night."

I'm sure I read somewhere, that in a negotiation, you should open with a fact that the opponent has no choice but to agree with. That sort of tricks them into agreeing with whatever you say next. Which would be fan-dabby-dozy as soon as I worked out what I was going to say next.

Craig nodded uncertainly, clutched his own tea, leaning against the counter as far away from me as he could get. I took a deep breath ready to launch into an articulate and well argued speech about how this breakup nonsense was just that and should be dispensed with forthwith, but suddenly Craig and his creepy kitchen sort of wobbled in front of me. I slumped against the counter, exhaustion hitting me like a steam train.

'Linley —'

His tone startled me. I looked up in shock, my tummy twisting around a block of ice as I took in his expression. Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't this. He was furious, his jaw hard and tight, every muscle so tense he looked as though he'd fall over like a statue if you poked him.

'What the hell are you doing here?' he spat.

What? My heart was thudding. I opened my mouth to say something but I had nothing to say so I just shut it again.

'How fucking dare you think you can —

'Craig?'

Oh.

Oh shite.

Don't cry in front of him.

And definitely don't cry in front of her.

She was wearing a hoody that was obviously his because it came down to her knees, but even in my stupefied horror I knew I didn't recognise it. What was it with this bloody post-breakup shopping trip?

'Go back to bed, I'll be through in a minute,' Craig said, though I could barely hear him over the blood roaring in my ears.

'Five years,' I manage to choke out.

This threw him. 'What?'

'Five years. Five fucking years, Craig, and you move on in, what, twenty minutes? I'm not worth — we weren't worth a — a mourning period? We haven't even — you've not even picked up all your stuff. How could you?'

So much for my articulate and well argued speech. I screeched the last bit. It's not ideal that she'll have heard, but I think we can all agree dignity went out the window some time ago.

'I met her a couple of months ago,' he said, and stared at me with this weird expression that gave me chills.

And that's supposed to help?'

A couple of months ago we were planning our five year anniversary trip to Portofino. Which we couldn't take because my passport expired, which had turned into a huge blow up. I'd felt awful about ruining our holiday and now he was telling me he'd been seeing somebody else that whole time?

'Is this her flat? Have you moved in with her?'

'Linley, I don't know what you're playing at, but you can't do this, not now. It's not fair. I'm finally happy again and —'

'This is your kitchen?' I demanded. 'All these weird space-agey machines, this is the kind of kitchen you want to live in? You want to be a person who has one of those boiling water taps?'

'What? It's a rental. I can't buy, remember, because, you —'

'What's the matter with a kettle?'

As parting shots, it's not going to make the hall of fame, but it was the best I could muster in the circumstances.