And liberating to have a couple hours’ respite from the pressure I’ve been going through at home, too. Finding out about Alex like that, and thinking that I was actually going to have a heart attack when I heard about his deal. Really, I literally couldn’t breathe, and Barbara – those bloody writing students get everywhere – looked quite worried. I mean, things have got to a pretty bad state when an overweight septuagenarian with varicose veins worries about my health!

But the Alex thing is beginning to seem like some giant trick the universe is playing on me, for the sole purpose of tormenting me; I feel poisoned by it, like some bastard cherub dipped an arrow in a bucket of strychnine and fired it at me. There I was, minding my own business, trying lipstick shades on the back of my hand in Boots, wishing I had someone who would complain about the lipstick traces I’d left on his collar, or skin; when Barbara tapped me on the shoulder, looming up behind me like Fungus the Bogeyman with a shopping basket.

‘Hello, Siobhan!’ she says, friendlily but somehow cautiously, like a mental nurse talking to one of her patients. Like she’s afraid I’m going to go off on one again (turns out that I was, kind of. But there was still no need for her to act like that). ‘Are you feeling better? We were all ever so sorry when you left, you know. The class isn’t the same without you.’

I smiled weakly. ‘Thanks Barbara.’ I wondered if I should apologise – hadn’t I said something quite nasty to her? I couldn’t remember if it was her or Mary, so I decided against apologising unnecessarily.

‘We’ve got a very nice young man teaching us now. He’s quite hot on homework though – works us much harder than you used to! He’s had a book published, you know.’

‘So have I,’ I said, pretending to be offended that she hadn’t remembered, when actually I was very offended. My hand now had six different pastel lines drawn on it in lipstick. I decided on a raspberry-coloured one, and scrubbed off the others with a tissue.

‘Oh yes, dear, well, you writers are such a talented bunch, aren’t you? And have you heard the wonderful news about Alex?’

I nearly dropped the raspberry lipstick. ‘Alex?’

‘Yes, remember him? I always thought his work showed such promise.’

‘Alex,’ I repeated, somehow knowing what was coming.

‘Got a publishing contract, he has, for his stories. And they want him to write a novel too. Brian told us last night in class. Alex wasn’t there because he’s gone to celebrate in Amsterdam with his girlfriend. Isn’t that lovely for them? He got an awful lot of money, too, I understand. Fifty thousand pounds, at least.’

Fifty grand? Fucking Alex got fifty grand? Well, at least it wasn’t half a million, but still – 50K for a few minging short stories and a not-even-written-yet novel? My advance was long ago swallowed up by the bricks and mortar of my house. The house where Phil and I were supposed to live happily ever after.

And he’s taken that piglet on holiday to Amsterdam… I felt faint.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ said Barbara, looking panic-stricken. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour. Are you going to have another of your turns?’

I could have punched her. I clenched my fist around the lipstick. I don’t have ‘turns’, for God’s sake! She made me sound like some ancient grandmother. ‘I’ve got to go. Nice to see you Barbara. Do send my love to the rest of the class.’

I pocketed the lipstick and marched out, panting with shock.

So that’s how come I’m sitting in a hotel in Amsterdam, wearing a stolen raspberry lipstick (it’s a bit too pink for my liking, actually. Wish I’d taken the Ginger Spice one) and coming down off an extremely strong joint. I wonder how I go about finding out where Alex and the Piglet are staying? I feel empowered, as it happens, exhilarated by the chase and the challenge and the change of scenery. If I want things to happen in my life, I have to make them happen. If I want to get back at Alex and the slag of a girlfriend who slagged me off, I have to do it myself. Instead of sitting on my ass grumbling about him like some sad, weak loser.

It was easy to get out here. I rang Patricia and reminded her of that offer by the Dutch company to do a reading, so she rang my Dutch editor, Mareliese. Mareliese said there wasn’t enough time to organise a reading, but if I was coming over anyway, she’d love to take me to lunch, and into a few bookshops to sign some stock. They couldn’t pay for my flight, though. But it wasn’t expensive on Easyjet, and by that time I’d made up my mind. And it was nice to have an official reason to be here.

I also rang Alex’s flat and spoke to his flatmate, pretending to be someone from an agency wanting to represent him (a great excuse to ring, I thought). His flatmate confirmed that he was away in Amsterdam until next Thursday. I invented a name and phone number, and told him to get Alex to call me.

Mareliese recommended a lovely hotel. It’s where all the authors stay when they come to Amsterdam to do promotion, and there are signed copies of all their books in a little library next to Reception. I wondered if Alex might have plumped for this one too, but there was nobody by the name Parkinson when I checked. And anyway, he probably doesn’t know about it. Yet.

The room’s a bit expensive, but I thought, sod it. I need a break. So I went for a canal-view one, with huge black-framed windows running down the length of it, and the dark water sliding past outside. The building opposite has twenty-eight windows, all with shutters. It must have been some kind of warehouse originally. The windows are all different sizes – big down the middle, flanked by smaller ones, and then with these two tiny round windows right at the top; bits of wood jutting out above them which must have been where the pulleys were attached. It looks like a pair of eyes with eyebrows. Freaked me out a bit when I was high, actually.

If I try hard enough, I can pretend that I’m here because I’ve won some prestigious Dutch award for Best First Novel, or something. Or I’m about to be picked up and taken to a radio station for a national radio interview.

I’ve just rung thirty hotels in my Rough Guide to Amsterdam, starting with the most expensive ones, assuming that Alex will want to splash out, now he’s rich and everything. No Alex Parkinsons. Maybe they only stayed two nights and then went to Rotterdam or somewhere. I’ll try a few more then I’m giving up….

….Ha! Well, I was wrong about Alex wanting to splash out. I’ve finally found him, on my 35th call, to a hotel listed under the ‘budget’ heading in the guide book. I double-checked it was him, by asking if he was with his girlfriend Emily, and he was. Bingo. Unfortunately their hotel seems to be quite a way away from here. And I haven’t decided what exactly I’m going to do anyway.

Think I’ll go out for some dinner and a wander, get some air. And maybe back to the coffee shop to see if Evan’s around.

Monday

What an excellent night! Evan is such a laugh. I can’t remember when I last laughed so much. His friends were an interesting bunch, too. A bit lacking in the tooth department, some of them, and there was a little too much talk of breaking people’s limbs for my liking; but I’m sure all that was just macho bollocks. Big lads, they were. I’ve never seen quite so many tattoos. The air was as heavy with testosterone as with pot – but I loved it. I loved the uncomplicated masculinity of their company. They really made me feel welcome, like a little sister.

Evan’s friend owns that coffee shop, which is why he’s always in there. I had all sorts of different flavoured beers, including a raspberry one, to match my lipstick, and God knows how many hits off how many different joints.

I was really out it. Evan walked me back here and we had a bit of a snog on the bridge, but – thankfully – I declined to let him come back to my room. He’s not my type. Too…I dunno…meathead-ish, I suppose. But not stupid – we had some long, long talks. Or rather, I talked, and he listened. I couldn’t seem to stop, actually. It was so great to have a sympathetic ear, and I really felt he understood my plight.