The
week before her thirty-fifth birthday, Betony Field walked into an odd little
café on the corner of Swift Street and Scuttle Lane. She was shivering, partly
from cold and damp and partly because she hadn’t eaten anything worth
mentioning since the week before.
She might have picked
herself up, tied a knot and gone on after Jay gave her the not you it’s me spiel. They’d been together for five years, but it
really wasn’t going anywhere. She knew he’d leave, but hadn’t expected him to
jump ship just days before she stepped over the hill to nearer-forty-than-thirty.
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