I never expected to meet mymy Fiancée thisthis way…

I shimmy down my sequin dress and exit my ex’s apartment block to merge into the flow of morning commuters in Soho, London, when I see him. His face sits above everybody else’s, and wrapped around his neck is a checked scarf that flies behind him in the wind. My heart stops when we make eye contact, not because it’s love at first sight or anything like that, but because he’s head to toe in tailoring, hair done up, and I’m doing the walk of shame in heels I can’t walk in.

This is how I met Jason, my fiancée.

I wrap my arms around myself. What nobody tells you about going-out attire is that, whilst the outfit might get you lucky, it’s definitely nothing short of bad luck the morning after. Mascara welling under my eyes, skin unwashed and lips chapped, I look like I’ve been buried alive for two months which is why, bumping into Jason, I proceed down the path, no word of an apology, because I don’t fancy stretching out the encounter longer than I need to and embarrassing myself further.

I catch the Bakerloo line between Elephant and Castle, grip the pole and stare at the floor before I make eye contact with any more commuters. Out Tuesday night? What the fuck was I thinking?

I slip one of my dress straps back onto my shoulder when it falls and shimmy down the skirt, conscious that it rode up too far on the descent into the underground. The cologne of mystery man still lingers longer than my liking – it’s a fresh sort of smell, somewhere between pine cones and grass. A natural smelling one. Something that recedes my hangover, dulling the ache in my head.

Is it a hangover, though, or the fact that I went back with my cheating ex last night? I shouldn’t have, I knew that, which is why I ordered a round of tequila shots for me and the girls so none of us were functioning enough to talk me out of it. Bad idea. Curtis, my ex, is the sort of guy that prances around like a peacock. A pea-sized cock is exactly what he has, it’s nothing impressive, but the forest green eyes and prominent cheekbones make him attractive, not just in the eyes of me and the girl he, three months ago, cheated on me with, but in the eyes of Burberry.

Yes, a professional model, and god is it all he talks about. Fourteen units of alcohol a month is all he’s able to consume, so of course, when I knew a new month was fast approaching, I sent the Windmill some photos of me and my friends in tight dresses and shimmery makeup and got us onto the guestlist to his favourite club.