She hugs me back even tighter, her fingers tracing through my hair. ‘Shh, it’s OK … I know, I know … Everything’s going to be all right, I promise.’

I pull away to see that her eyes are red and glistening with tears. There are dark circles underneath them, as if she hasn’t slept properly in days.

The relief freezes inside me, turning instantly to cold, clammy fear. There’s something wrong here.

Was the watch-seller lying? Has the present changed after all? Maybe Daphne somehow knows about what happened in Paris.

‘We’ll get through it,’ she mumbles as she wipes her eyes. ‘Everything will be fine.’

My mind is fizzing and spluttering, trying to comprehend what’s going on.

And then, behind her, I see it. The black suit.

It dangles limply on the back of the bedroom door like an invisible man hanged for some terrible crime.

Daff puts her head in her hands and starts crying: hard, heavy, jagged sobs. And with a sickening jolt, it dawns on me. This madness isn’t over at all.

It’s about to get much, much worse.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the green and white wreath by the door. Lilies. That was the decision in the end: lilies.

Tulips were Mum’s favourite, but apparently they weren’t suitable for the occasion. I can’t remember who said that – the funeral director, maybe, or Uncle Simon – but it was decided one way or the other.

I sit here in silence, watching the steam curl up from my undrunk coffee and feeling a dark, scary anger start to uncoil inside me at the thought of going through this again. Daff is standing by the stove, stirring a saucepan of porridge and intermittently pressing a tissue to her eyes.

She’s already dressed in her smart black outfit, her curly hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Despite her tired eyes and worried frown, she still looks beautiful.

I, on the other hand, must look anything but. I’m still wearing the T-shirt and pyjama bottoms I woke up in. I just couldn’t face getting changed yet. Putting that suit on would make it all seem real somehow, and I’m not sure I’m ready to believe yet that it is. So the suit’s still upstairs, on the back of the bedroom door, waiting for me to climb into it and relive one of the worst days of my life: December 10th, 2018.

Daff plonks a steaming bowl of porridge down in front of me and attempts a smile.

‘Here you go. Please eat something.’

She kisses me on the top of the head. Not the kind of kiss you give a husband or a lover: the kind you give a child. Then she mutters something about going to put on some make-up, and leaves the room.