How dare Luke Costello barge into my home and hit me up with a load of nonsense allegations? All the times I’d tried to get him to talk to me and it took this?

And the absolute nerve of him acting like the wronged party! He had left me.

At about 2 a.m., admitting defeat, I got dressed, summoned Crunchie, found the flashlight and went outside. (The flashlight was one of my touchstones, a sure sign that I was an adult. It was the first thing I’d spent money on that I didn’t need immediately, but ‘in case of a power cut’. It wasn’t even a nice colour.)

We headed for the trees, Crunchie casting me uneasy glances: was this middle-of-the-night wood-walking going to become a thing?

‘Who knows?’ I said to her.

I was never more grateful for her because once you’ve a dog, you can go anywhere. A long-haired woman in her forties walking alone in the forest in the dead of night is a candidate for being burnt as a witch. But throw in a dog and suddenly everything is grand. (‘Stand down the pyre, lads, she has a dog!’)

As I tramped along in the dimly lit darkness, details that had registered only subconsciously at the time were coming into focus. The big boots Luke had been wearing had given him an extra inch or so over me, making him even more daunting. Had it been deliberate, I wondered. Who knew? Anything was possible because he was not the man I’d once known.

He’d even smelt different—we’d been so near to each other in my living room that the angry heat of his body had reached me. But everything which contributes to the unique smell of a person—detergent, soap, food, environment—had changed.

Also, his overcoat wasn’t very him. Maybe he’d borrowed it from one of his brothers? Or maybe that was his look now—because his jeans were different too. Definitely not as tight as they used to be. My sisters would be devastated.

Beside me, Crunchie was panting. Part corgi, part golden retriever, her short little legs weren’t able for this. ‘Okay, we’ll go home.’

Sometime around 3.30 a.m. I dropped off. Only to be woken at seven twenty-five by my phone ringing—Luke.

Jesus Christ.

‘Luke?’ My mouth tasted of rage. ‘What have I done now?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said heavily. ‘Last night. Losing the head. Calling to your home. I shouldn’t have done it. Any of it. I’m sorry.’

I hadn’t a clue what to say.

‘…You still there?’ he asked.

I took refuge in therapy talk. ‘Your mum has died,’ I said. ‘You’re in shock.’

‘I don’t know what got into me.’

‘It’s okay. Let it go.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes. Take care of yourself.’

‘Uh. Okay. You too.’

‘Okay.’ Then, ‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’