The night before my wedding I heard my maid of honour through the hotel wall saying they'd pour wine on my dress and lose the rings. I recorded four minutes of it with my phone against the connecting door.

It was that I had been right. In the April. On my own, with no recording and no taxi and nobody telling me anything.

I did not need a single one of them.

And I want to be exact about what I did with it in the April, because deleted it makes it sound like a reflex and it was not.

I wrote that note on a Tuesday night in bed, after a Sunday where Nadia had been at ours.

I read it back the next morning on the bus. Then I read it again at lunch. Then at about nine that evening I opened it a fourth time and sat with my thumb over it.

Four times in twenty-four hours.

That is not a woman dismissing a thought. That is a woman going back to check whether it is still there.

And at the fourth go I deleted it — not because I had stopped believing it, but because every time I opened it I could see exactly where it was going to end up.