As tears of rage and shame gathered behind my eyes, I stomped back inside to ring Juliet Dooley. She needed to get herself and her daughters in here sharpish and this time I wouldn’t let myself be fobbed off.

Under normal circumstances, I was good at my job. Like, skilled at reading people, knowing when to go easy and knowing when to go in for the kill. But in the week since all the Luke stuff had kicked off, things had been—what was the phrase?—sub-optimal. My sleep had been more broken than usual and I was just…disrupted.

I mean, seriously—what kind of half-decent counsellor would have taken a chance on Patch Dooley? The moment he’d swanned up here with his carload of bagels, I should have shown him the door.

There was only one person responsible for this debacle and it was me. But I didn’t like that feeling, so instead I decided to blame Luke.

It was his fault that my decision-making abilities were off. If Dennis Dooley didn’t get sober, if he drank his way into an early grave, leaving behind a devastated widow and two fatherless daughters, Luke Costello was to blame.

*

Would this lunchtime ever end?

For once, I was entirely caught up on my work. My caseload was always heavy and my obsessive tendencies probably didn’t help—I usually researched my patients so thoroughly that I could have gone undercover and lived as them. But I’d emailed and called every relevant friend, colleague or family member of my charges. In addition, I was up to date on all the new drops on the many, many online stores I liked. I’d ordered new secateurs with cheery pink handles. I’d visited ‘my’ Chanel bag and wondered what exactly I’d have to sell in order to afford it. Then I’d looked up articles on living with a single kidney and come to the conclusion that selling one of mine might be a mistake. In short, I’d run out of ways to distract myself so it was probably no surprise that I flashed back six years to that terrible Thursday afternoon when I’d realized Luke was going to leave me.

I’d been asleep but I woke with a jump, terribly afraid, without knowing why.

A strange air of industry drew me to the living room. His back to me, Luke was removing books from a shelf, his damp T-shirt sticking to him.

The floor was strewn with CDs and books. I couldn’t make sense of the scene.

‘What’s going on?’

Luke gave me a quick look. His hair was in his eyes, in damp points. ‘Packing my stuff.’

‘…Why?’

‘You know why.’

What does he mean? ‘Have I…missed something?’

He shrugged, eyes as cool as slate.

‘Wait. What. Talk to me, please!’