I met James at Edinburgh University when we were nineteen.

He was from a grand old family in the Borders. Boarding school. A grandfather who'd been a judge. He was handsome and clever and very sure of himself, and I couldn't believe he'd chosen me.

I was from Leith. My dad was a docker until the docks closed. My mum served school dinners. We lived in a tenement flat four floors up, with a view of the cranes.

After university, James trained as a lawyer. I got a job in the planning department of the city council. Roads. Housing. Parks. Not glamorous. But I loved it.

James used to tease me about it at dinner parties with his friends.

“Holly decides where the bins go,” he'd say, and everyone would laugh.

Then, when we were twenty-eight, a big law firm in London offered him a job.

He took me to the most expensive restaurant on the Royal Mile to tell me. I thought he was going to propose.

Instead, he said I was too ordinary.

I remember the waiter coming over at the worst moment to ask if we wanted to see the dessert menu. I remember saying, “No, thank you,” very politely, like my mum taught me. And I remember thinking, walking home in the rain: Maybe he's right.