Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson

What a nightmare!

      It’s obvious Toby isn’t a huge fan of glamping or the countryside in general. We’ve spent all our time since we got together in the city. How was I to know Toby would be so ill at ease in the country?

      Now that I think about it, the warnings were there for me to see. On the odd occasion I’ve suggested going for a hike and a meal in a country pub, Toby has always thought of an alternative. The showing of a foreign film he’s wanted to see for a while. Or a visit to a museum. Actually, most of the time, our evenings are spent with him catching up on work while I cook dinner. Two courses at least. Obviously.

      Apparently, I’ve failed utterly with the glamping …

      Tears spring up from nowhere. I feel so defeated.

      A woman bustles into reception from somewhere within the hotel. She’s wearing a smart black suit that skims her generous curves and her blonde hair is scraped back in a severe bun. She glances at me over her dark-framed spectacles and I quickly blink to despatch the tears.

      ‘Can I help you, Madam?’ she asks.

      I struggle up from my slouched position and force a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

      She gives me a thin smile, then approaches the girl behind the reception desk and they have a murmured conversation about a hotel guest needing special pillows. I notice she’s wearing a badge with ‘Manager’ on it.

      On her way past me, she stops and murmurs, ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you need?’

      I heave a sigh. ‘A table in the restaurant? So my boyfriend can have the birthday he deserves?’ I shrug and smile, as if to say: It’s no big deal.

      ‘Are we full?’

      I nod. ‘But really, it’s fine. It’s our fault for not booking a table.’ I must look really downhearted because her face relaxes into a sympathetic smile, her head tipped to one side.

      ‘Is it a special birthday?’

      I tell her it’s his thirtieth and she thinks for a second.

      ‘Let me see what I can do.’ She bustles off, her patent leather court shoes squeaking slightly on the plush carpet.

      She returns less than a minute later. ‘Table for two at eight suit you?’

      My heart lifts. ‘Yes, that’s brilliant. Thank you so much. Toby will be delighted.’

      She nods and smiles. ‘Good. Well, enjoy!’ And then she’s gone.

      Anxious to deliver the good news to Toby – no baked beans for us tonight! – I wander over to the men’s toilets and lurk outside for a minute. What’s he doing in there?

      After another minute, I’m getting impatient. Perhaps I could just go in.

      These are obviously posh loos so there’ll just be cubicles in there. No urinal thingy.

      Slowly, I push open the door a crack. Hesitantly, I call out Toby’s name.

      I hear a grunt so I push the door wider. Sure enough, cubicles only. And very posh, with hand cream and everything. Just one cubicle is engaged.

      I walk in and call out, ‘You’ll never guess? I’ve managed to get us a table for eight o’clock. Isn’t that great? And …’ I move close to the door and murmur, ‘I’ve packed the wellies and the apron. If you’re a very good boy, I’ll put them on later …’

      The first time I cooked Toby a meal, he arrived early and surprised me in the garden picking herbs for the tomato sauce. I’d just emerged from the shower and was wearing little more than wellies and a large apron. Toby clearly admired my quirky ‘outfit’ because after we laughed about it, we ended up in bed together, tomato sauce temporarily forgotten …

      The toilet flushes and I stand back, expecting Toby to emerge all smiles at the memory of our first night together.

      My mouth sags open.

      It’s not Toby. It’s a complete stranger.

      Well, not quite a stranger. It’s the hulking, surly, obnoxious man from earlier. The one who barged in on our kiss and accused us of blocking his way.