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such a sedate and respectable lifestyle.
    Phil was apparently still living the life of a nomad. He’d taken a gap year after university, which had grown into a second year of bumming around the world. His wandering lifestyle had metamorphosed into a job as a freelance photographer, and although his family still lived in the area, Phil spent little time there between assignments, often electing those that sent him abroad for months at a time. Sarah said that when their paths had crossed, she sensed in him a restlessness that seemed to explain his lifestyle and a reluctance to settle in any one place.
    And then there was Matt … and of course Cathy, for now their histories were inextricably linked. I could tell how hard it had been for Sarah to let me know about them. How carefully Sarah had chosen her words, picking just the right phrase, uncertain of the pain she might be inflicting. It was just over eighteen months since she had told me that Cathy and my ex-boyfriend were now an item. As the words had settled down the phone lines between us, I had waited for the shard of pain—but there was none, merely surprise. And not surprise that those two unbelievably beautiful people were together, just that it had taken Cathy this long to achieve her objective.
    I pushed this thought away, as I had when Sarah first broke the news to me about their relationship. If I allowed myself to think of Matt, then I would be opening the door to our ownsad little story and breakup, and that would lead to the reasons why … 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 felt like 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 dilapidated launderette 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 lighthearted moments I would refer to my flat as shabby-chic, but without the chic. That about summed it up.
    THE TRAIN’S RHYTHM began to slow, and I realized that the two-hour journey had passed much more speedily than I would have liked. When the androgynous voice of the loudspeaker 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 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