The sun was coming up outside as she read the last page and wiped her eyes. She died in bed, surrounded by her husband, and children and grand children, and happy, so happy. The children she had never wanted had filled her heart as she read about them growing up, becoming people, and she was so glad that she changed her mind. The man she would soon call her husband had helped. He was lovely; charming, kind and thoughtful and completely in love with her. He also wanted kids, badly, which, it turned out, was fine with her.

It was a good book. Not bestseller, and probably a little long-winded to start with, but if you liked your romances soppy, it had a great ending.

She placed the book carefully on the sofa and staggered to the shower, wondering just how the hell she was supposed to get through a day at work. The hot water helped, as did the coffee and Weetabix, and when she climbed into the car, she felt at least halfway human. Sat in traffic, she replayed parts of her future life. Her stomach was crowded with butterflies. She would meet him next week, and she knew exactly when, and exactly how, and was still excited. Why would she not have read it? It was wonderful, having a million things to look forward to.

The day went in a blur. The sense of deja-vu wasn’t too strong and she was glad she’d skipped the boring bits. Doing a transfer was dull enough, but doing it after having read it already was close to torture. She got out by five and climbed, stiff-limbed, back into her Corsa and pulled out into the traffic. She wanted to read it again, to savour the best bits, and she re-watched scenes in her head, one eye on the road as she crawled along. Every time she thought of a good bit, she found herself bouncing up and down in her seat, a smile on her lips. Dammit, why was the traffic so bloody slow?