I yawn, feeling the sunlight hit me across the face. I don't want to get up. My eyes are closed, and I'm sinking into what feels like a pile of marshmallow clouds. This is so comfortable. The sheets rustle, a little louder than what I'm used to hearing. I frown. I'm quite sure I told the maids I wanted only silk sheets for my bed –

My eyes fly open. They land on an unfamiliar white ceiling.

I'm not in my house. This is the Satohs'. They're a Japanese couple who offered me a night in their place, because ... because what? I squeeze my eyes hard. Oh god, this headache is not helping. How much did I drink last night? I have a vague memory of holding a bottle of whisky. Which I finished in a train station. Where I met a nice janitor. Who helped me buy a ticket for –

"Ryefair!" I exclaim out loud, sitting up and punching the air. The next second I'm doubled over again, burying my pounding head into the cool pillows and muttering to myself, "Ssshhhhh, not too loud ..."

There's a smart rap on the door and a woman in a blue uniform enters. I blink, trying to place her face. Ah yes. This is Anita. The very efficient housekeeper who took one look at me last night and immediately decided to give me a hot soak in a full bathtub as well as a mug of warm milk.

"Breakfast is served downstairs," she informs. "Also, I heard you wanted a mobile charger? You can buy that from the shops in the village square."

"Thank you," I say. Anita nods and leaves. I lie there for a minute, before forcing myself to get up. As enticing as the bed is, I can't keep staying in like this. There's a bunch of things for me to do – buy a charger, call my sister, get the right address, and leave by train.

Besides, I frown, there's something else too. Something nagging at the back of my mind. It's not really something I need to do, it's more like something I've done. I can't quite remember what it is, but I'm sure it'll come to mind in a minute.

I yawn, stretching out lazily in the big bed. This is better than some dusty old inn, for sure. That was some luck, meeting the Satohs last night. Things could have been worse ... but then things could also have been better if I had just gotten the address right. My own sister's place, and I don't even know it. Sigh.

And that janitor. No wonder he asked me if I was sure about Ryefair! He must have known it was a dingy little village miles away from anywhere. Ha, and that face! That face he pulled when I shoved him all my credit cards –

My train of thought screeches to a halt and nearly jumps off the tracks.

Not my credit cards. Jared's credit cards.

Oh my God. Oh Jesus. It's coming back to me now. What I've done.

I divorced Jared. I divorced one of the richest men in London. I cut off my only source of financial income and told him the chances of me coming back were as slim as the chances of him keeping his dick in his pants.

Panic starts to bubble in my chest. What have I done? What have I done? What was drunk me thinking? I can't survive on my own! I've never cooked. I've never cleaned. I've never driven my own car or spent my own money. I'm a 27-year-old woman who's only done one job in her entire life – being someone's trophy wife. Most children move out of their parents' house to become independent; I moved out of my parents' house to depend on somebody else!

This is not just a disaster; this is an apocalypse. I have single-handedly ruined my own life and I don't even know where to go about fixing it.

No, wait. I can still stop this. I can still retract the divorce petition. All I need to do is call up Martha –

But what about Janice? a little voice in me whispers.

I stop still. The image plays in my mind again; Janice gasping, Jared panting, firm hands gripping soft thighs.

Just as quickly another voice springs up saying: what about Janice? She's just another woman in a long line of women.

It's like a war has broken out in my head. A war of two Irises, sitting across each other in a posh café. One of them is wearing the Dior Couture and holding the Ferragamo clutch. Another one is dressed in a fierce pantsuit à la Emma Watson and rocking a pair of devastating sunglasses.

Dior Iris takes a genteel sip of her rose tea. "Iris didn't marry Jared because of his loyalty," she says. "She married Jared because he has a bottomless wallet. Whereas she doesn't even have a penny to her name."

Emma Iris swirls her glass of whisky. "Pennies can always be earned in other ways. But a leopard won't change his spots. Once a cheater, always a cheater."

"Sure, pennies can be earned. If she has a job," Dior Iris fires back. "You do realize she's never worked a single day in her life?"

"Can't be that hard. She can easily find work as a model. Or be an Instagram influencer."

I perk up. I quite like the idea of being an Instagram influencer. I do make all these plans for my feed's aesthetic ...

"Or she can go back to Jared, do nothing and still have money rolling in," Dior Iris points out.

"If she goes back, Jared will hold that over her head for the rest of her life."

"If she doesn't go back, she'll be homeless on the streets. Not to mention she'll be losing all her bags and her shoes and her dresses and her VIP memberships ..."

The idea that I'll never be able to see my wardrobe again sends a shockwave of grief through my system. No, that can't happen!

Emma Iris rolls her eyes. "She won't be homeless. Have you forgotten about Heather?"

Heather! That's right, I still have my sister. She'll sort it out. She always does. I should be focused on getting in touch with her right now.

I jump out of bed. Anita has left me a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. I get changed quickly, and out of habit, check myself out in the mirror. There's a teddy bear right smack in the middle of the shirt and someone has patched a heart shape in red knitting on the pocket of the jeans. It's like someone cut out the face of a glossy women's magazine and pasted it on a kids' catalogue.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Leaving my bedroom, I go downstairs and start asking for a cab.

£

It turns out no cab will take me.

"The village square?" The cab driver laughs. "That's just five minutes of walking. You just head on right down there and turn right. You can't miss it for the world."

"But I don't want to walk," I say impatiently. "I want to get there quick."

"Then you better get going if you're in a hurry." The cab driver scratches his head. "But I can't take you there. I won't know how much to charge you for the ride – half a quid? You come back here if you need a ride to the train station or the hills."

Why on Earth would I go to a random hill? This is ridiculous. But it's pointless to argue with the cab driver, and so I start to walk at a brisk pace.

Ryefair, I decide, is the perfect picture of a quintessential English village. The cottages that had been hidden in the dark when I first arrived are now thrown into light, with their sand-coloured stone walls and chimneys and tall windows peeking out like many narrow eyes. Rows of warped and bubbly shingles wrap around the roofs.

And there are so many people. Even as I think this I wonder why I feel amazed; Ryefair's population is surely nothing but a smidge compared to London. But here the people look more alive. More real. More here than there. It's the first time I'm seeing overalls and farmer boots worn as a practical item of clothing, instead of a fashion statement.

I find the village square as easily as the cab driver said. Thankfully, the gadget store does sell iPhone chargers, and once I have my mobile plugged into the socket and powered on, notifications come trickling in. Heather Monet: eight missed calls. Jared Darling: fifteen missed calls. I raise an eyebrow. Jared's not the type of person with enough patience to try and dial me fifteen times. I bet he threw his mobile at Anthony and asked him to do it instead.

Heather picks up on the first ring.

"Iris!" Her voice is hushed, like she doesn't want someone to hear. "Where have you been?"

I told her the entire story of my mobile dying and mistakenly coming to Ryefair.

"I'm going to Mayfair as soon as I can get a ticket," I finish. "I'll stay at your place and then – "

"Jared is here."

That pulls me up short. "What do you mean he's here?"

"He figured out the only person you can go to is me. He knows you don't talk to Dad, and the only friends you have are – well, his friends." Ouch. Painful, but true. "I've been telling him you're not here, but he doesn't believe me, and he's confident that you'll show up eventually."

That crafty rattlesnake. My heart starts beating wildly. He's got me pinned down. He knows me too well.

He knows I have no one else.

Heather's voice is pained. "He told us you walked out with nothing but your purse and dress on. Is that true? Sweetheart, you know you can't survive long like that. How much money do you have left?"

"I don't know. Maybe seventy pounds?" My voice is tiny.

"Any bank accounts you can access to withdraw money? I can send you some if you just give me the number."

My voice grows tinier. "I don't have my own bank account. They're all jointly shared under Jared's name."

There's a pause of disbelief. "Iris, don't you have any source of income that belongs just to you?"

I think of the credit cards and the bank accounts. I think of the house, and the car, and the staff and every item I've ever owned.

"No," I reply. "I have nothing. They've always been all Jared's."

There's a long silence. Dior Iris is whispering triumphantly in my head.

See? I told you. She can't run away.

Heather seems to have come to the same conclusion.

"I want you to know," she says at last, "that you will always be welcomed in my home, Iris. Always. But you know that staying with me is just a temporary solution. As much as I love you, and as much as I want to help you, I can't support you forever. Not when I have my own family."

"I know," I whisper.

"And I know you, Iris. You know yourself. Money is a way of life for you."

Money is a way of life for me.

"Whatever you choose, I will always support you. But I am telling you now – you won't be able to keep your old life if you leave Jared."

I bite my lip and refuse the urge to cry. "You're telling me to go back to him? Even after all the times he's cheated on me?"

"I'm not telling you to do anything. In the end you make the choice. But you need to be sure about what you want."

What do I want? I don't know. I know I love my lifestyle too much to give it up. But I also know that if I go back, it'll just prove to Jared that he can keep cheating on me with whoever he likes, and from that point onwards, anyone will be fair game.

Do I lose my pride ... or do I lose everything else?

There's sudden yelling in the background.

"Is that Iris?" I can hear Jared's voice demanding. "Are you talking to your sister right now? Give me the phone, Heather!"

"You will not speak to my wife in that manner, young man!"

The sound of a baby crying. Heather shouts, then Jared's voice is filling my ear.

"Iris? Is that you?"