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pushed this thought away, as I had when Sarah had first broken the news to me about their relationship. If I allowed myself to think of Matt, then I would be opening the door to our own sad little story and break-up, and that would lead to the reasons… and that would lead me somewhere I never allowed my thoughts to go.
    As the clusters of houses and built-up areas gradually gave way to fields and open spaces, I could feel a palpable tension beginning to rise inside me. I swallowed it back down with a mouthful of revolting, bitter coffee bought from the buffet car and tried to focus instead on the purpose of the visit. This was Sarah’s weekend; Sarah’s big day; I couldn’t allow myself to ruin this time for her by having her worry about how I was going to cope with being home again.
    That thought pulled me up sharply: home again. Was it really my home, was that how I still thought of it? I hadn’t lived there for five years, so technically no, it was not. But then nowhere else actually felt that it deserved that title either. Dad’s current address in North Devon, where we had moved during the long slow months of my recovery, was his home, not mine, despite the fact that I had lived there for almost two years. I suppose my small London flat was home, but it had always felt temporary and transient, chosen for its closeness to the convenient tube line rather than any emotional attachment to the building. Also, it was hard to form a deep emotional attachment to a rental property over a somewhat dilapidated laundrette in one of London’s less salubrious locations. I should have moved on when I had earned my first salary increase, should certainly have considered it by the next one, but there was a comfort in the known and familiar, however lacking in style it might be. In my more light-hearted moments I would refer to my flat as shabby-chic, but without the chic. That about summed it up.
    As the train’s rhythm began to slow, I realised that the two-hour journey had passed much more speedily than I would have liked and when the androgynous voice of the tannoy announced ‘The next stop is Great Bishopsford’, I was alarmed to discover I was no more ready to face my return than I had been any time in the last five years. As the train shuddered to a halt I got to my feet and reached up to retrieve my small overnight bag from the overhead rack.
    ‘Allow me,’ a man’s voice offered from behind me, and before I could decline, strong leather-clad arms reached up and lifted down the small case. As I looked up to thank the stranger I saw the quickly disguised look of sympathy on his face as he took in the jagged scar that became visible as I raised my head. I smiled briefly in thanks and lowered my head, allowing the thick curtain of hair to cover the worst of my marked face. It was a habit I had developed over time; it was easier to hide the scar than to have to deal with people’s reaction to it. Those who weren’t shocked into silence might be tempted to ask about its origins and I had made a decision many years ago never to speak of it if at all possible. And perhaps that was what was scaring me so badly about being back home. Because how would the old group of friends get through this weekend without speaking of something so cataclysmic that it had altered each of our lives in some way?
    I caught a taxi from the station, even though it was only a short walk to the hotel where I would be staying. But the walk would have taken me past our old school, and I wasn’t prepared yet for the memories taking that route might elicit. Inside the leather-seated interior of the cab, I resolutely kept my gaze firmly fixed on my knees and the floor and tried to avoid the inevitable for a little while longer.
    The hotel room was clean and impersonal. No memories here as I’d never set foot in the building before, so that was fine. It took all of three minutes to unpack my small bag. I glanced at the bedside radio alarm clock. It