It was the third weekend of May 2000 and I was in our newly acquired offices, sitting at what was going to be my desk and crying my eyes out.
As the person responsible for managing development of the burgeoning Borough Market, under the auspices of my cheese shop employers, I was supposed to be working a busy Saturday as the monthly market rolled around. I’d got in bright and early for a 6 o’clock start. We had set up an immense display of cheese, the shelves of the shop were brimming over with chutneys, pickles and condiments, outside on the cobbles a veritable harvest festival display of bread beckoned people in off the streets. The shop looked fantastic, it was buzzing with happy shoppers and I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that wouldn’t go away. So I had rung my fiancé and told him that that not only could I not marry him, but I’d actually been in a relationship with my boss, for the past eight months.
‘You are not breaking up with me over the phone!’ he told me, ‘I’ll come in.’
To be honest it was a bit of a waste of his time. He was never going to change my mind. He came. We talked. I agreed that I wouldn’t go back to our flat that evening and he left.
It wasn’t that long before I became aware that I wasn’t alone anymore. Jacob, one of my managers who was also a friend, had come in. He was a bit surprised. I have no idea what I looked like – vaguely molten I expect. I just about sobbed out that I’d called off the wedding and he left as well.
I didn’t get any more work done that day.