And it goes further still, and this is the one.
I asked a man to pretend to be my boyfriend so that my ex-husband would see that somebody wanted me.
That is what I did. That is the entire plan in one sentence.
And I thought it was funny for about four weeks. I told three people and all three of them said good for you.
Two years divorced. A woman of thirty-eight with two children, a job she is good at, and a house in her own name.
And the thing I organised — the thing I bought a dress for, the thing I was nervous about in a car park for four minutes — was a demonstration. Staged. For an audience of one.
I was still arguing my case to him.
Everything that man said in that kitchen about my waist, I had taken as a verdict.
Not an insult. A verdict — a finding of fact about me that needed overturning.
