Debbie Johnson - A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

I called his mum, and his parents drove straight down to meet us there. By the time they arrived, he was enjoying a morphine buzz, I’d been questioned by the police, and his mother and father were furious. With me.

From their perspective, I’d been my usual crazy self – crashed a car while carrying their precious son in the passenger seat. I suppose that was the last straw – getting blamed in his mother’s rapid-fire Catalan, the words pinging towards me like bullets, his dad laying one hand on her shoulder to try and calm her down.

I can’t blame them for thinking the worst. I’d not exactly been the model wife, and I’m guessing they were as disappointed as I was – like me, they’d seen this trip as some kind of fresh start. Now, in their eyes, I’d messed it all up, and almost killed Seb in the process.

I didn’t have the energy to argue, or defend myself, or tell them what had really happened. My own self-esteem was in the toilet by that stage in my life anyway – I’d wasted years, made so many mistakes, let Seb reach this stage of self-destruction. I hated myself, and I was past caring whether they hated me too. There was plenty of room in that lifeboat.

So I let them rant and rave and take out all their anxieties and fears on me – it seemed easier than stopping them. I also knew that it might be the last kind thing I could do for them – because there was no way I could stick around and carry on living this life. There was no way I could get straight if I was around him, and no way I could trust him any more.

I stayed for the rest of the night, to make sure he was definitely all right and there wouldn’t be any complications, and then I left. I didn’t tell any of them – I just went to the police station to make sure it was okay and then got the first train back to the city.

I packed my bags, such as they were, and decided to leave. It’s not like a minor crash into the back of a van was going to result in Interpol being alerted, and I’d given the police my details – the insurance would cover the damage. To the van at least.

The damage to me was a bit more serious. I sat there in our flat, and saw it for what it was – nothing more than a squat. The cheap art posters tacked to the wall that I’d once thought were bohemian and charming now looked yellow and faded. The unmade bed we’d shared looked like a rat’s nest. The empty bottles from Seb’s last party with his pals were littering the room, making the whole place smell like tequila.

Everything I cared about fitted into my backpack – the same backpack I’d left England with all those years earlier. Over a decade of travelling and living; so many different countries, so many different friends and jobs and even a marriage – and I could still cram everything I needed into a backpack.

I left on the next flight to London, and that was the beginning of what I like to think of as my new life. I barely spoke on that flight, and I desperately wanted to buy every single one of those little bottles of booze the ladies with the trolleys wheel around. But I didn’t, which is maybe what saved me – I wasn’t an alcoholic in the physical sense, but I was addicted to using it as a crutch. If I’d turned to it then, I might never have stopped.

‘And what happened when you got back to the UK?’ Finn asks, his voice a whisper, barely heard over the clamour of all these memories.

‘I bummed around for a bit. Stayed on sofas, worked crappy jobs. Eventually got my shit together enough to decide to go back to college.’

‘And you never saw him again, after that?’

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Although I briefly spoke to his dad, a few months later, to make sure he was alive and all right. His dad was quite English about it all, didn’t scream or shout or anything – I suspect he knew the truth, and didn’t want to push me into telling him more than he wanted to know.

‘Once I was studying, things changed – life calmed down. I had something to do, and a reason for doing it, and I started to live again. I knew I’d got enough balance to go on a night out, to go and see a band, to have a few glasses of wine – I started to trust myself again, I suppose.’

‘What about now? Do you trust yourself now?’

‘Up to a point,’ I say, looking up to meet his eyes. ‘If we’re doing this whole honesty thing, I trust myself up to a point. I’m happy here. I’m happy with you. I’m happy I can have a drink and a laugh and for it to enhance my life rather than rule it. But … well, I’m probably never going to be entirely normal, Finn.’

He leans down to kiss me softly, and replies: ‘I think we’ve had this conversation before, Miss Moneypenny. I never signed on for normal. I signed on for you, in all your crazy glory.’

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