He’d finished a mouthful of steak and picked up his champagne glass before answering. The glasses had also been a gift from a client. There were a lot of grateful people in James’ life. ‘I think he’s about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Definitely younger than me.’

At least four years younger than him. Laura had stabbed her steak with her fork and pressed her knife down hard until a little blood oozed out. When she could trust her voice again, she spoke. ‘And did that make you start to think about when you’d like to get married?’

James put an elbow on the table and rested his forehead on his fingertips. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Laura. How does every conversation come back to this?’

How? A conversation about a colleague getting engaged was hardly a 180-degree turn from her question about them doing the same thing. This kind of comment from James used to be her signal to back down. To stop ‘banging on’ about it. Not any more. ‘Because you never give me an answer, James.’

It was true. His refusal to just sit down and have a grown-up conversation about their future was turning her into a pathetic, nagging whiner. And that made her even angrier. But what else could she do? Not mention it and keep on not mentioning it until they were still not mentioning it in their retirement home?

James raised his head and brought his other elbow onto the table, pressing his fingertips together as if he was about to conclude a financial summary. ‘If I was ever planning on proposing, do you not think you would be ruining it by constantly bringing the subject up? The more you go on about it, the less likely it is that I will be able to surprise you. You need to just leave it alone, Laura.’

The first five or so times Laura had heard him say this, she had been excited to think that he had a plan in mind. Nowadays, she knew it for what it was: a well-rehearsed feint. Except they weren’t playing a game of James’ beloved rugby; this was her life.

Even though Laura had technically started it, she could really have done without another argument like that the night before a sales meeting. Robert – he of the intimidating stare – was hosting this meeting at a hotel near his office in Paris, and all the regional sales managers like Laura were expected to fly in from wherever they were in Europe and prostrate themselves before him. That was probably a little unfair: he had at least promised them some sightseeing today in return for giving up their Saturday, but he could be a bit of a tyrant. They also had a dinner out tonight, before, first thing tomorrow, getting down to the nitty gritty of whose territory was performing in line with expectation and whose wasn’t. It had been a tough quarter for most of them and Robert had made no secret of the fact that sales needed to improve soon. Very soon.

As she made her way back to her seat, Laura saw herself reflected back in the train windows. Reddish-brownish hair, no make-up and a T-shirt and hoodie; she hadn’t changed much since she’d graduated ten years ago with the vague plan that she would do some travelling, find a job she loved and then settle down with James and two-point-four children. How had she ended up here? Her career had started as a temp job in the finance department when she’d finished university. Somehow, a decade later, here she was, heading up the UK sales team. Badly.

When Laura slid back into her seat, Kate was engrossed in a book. What was it? Laura had almost broken her neck a few times, craning it at an awkward angle to try and find out what someone on the train was reading.