‘If it’s meant to be, we’ll still be together next month, next year, next decade.’ He concocted a plan that we’d meet on the first evening of each of the holidays at the same bar if we still felt this way. It felt incredibly romantic, almost something lifted out of a Hugh Grant film.

Every holiday, every year, we were there. Sometimes him first, anxiously looking at his watch, sometimes me, worried he wouldn’t turn up, but always, always there. The bar is now a Specsavers but I still smile when I pass it.

Again, I glance in the rear-view mirror. This time I catch sight of a white car. My heart jumps.

Is it the car?

My hand shakes as I manoeuvre the gear stick into fourth. The car flies over a speed bump and lands with a jolt, jarring my spine. I slow down. The white car also slows.

Panic stamps down upon my chest.

The glaring sun prevents me from seeing who is driving. I pull into a bus stop and the car overtakes me, disappearing around the corner. Momentarily, I rest my head on the steering wheel in relief before I carry on through the housing estate we still call new although it was built in the Eighties, until I pull up outside Mel’s house. I dash down the path towards the mock Tudor semi with its smooth cream render and black wooden beams. Rap the brass knocker onto the glossy black door.

Mel takes an age to answer and when she does she looks terrible. Her eyes bloodshot, hair unbrushed.

‘I told you not to come.’ Her voice cracks.

For a moment I’m thrown but then she dissolves into tears and I step into the hallway, into the stale fug of wine that clouds her, and envelop her into a hug. She’s limp against me, crying as though her heart is broken.

And it probably is.

Melissa and Fergus.

Fergus and Melissa.

It’s impossible to imagine one without the other.

I don’t ask her any questions. Instead, I let her sob it out, my arms aching as I hold her up. When she eventually steps away from me, we head into the honeycomb yellow kitchen where I click on the kettle and prise the lid off the tea caddy. When I open the fridge door, the stench of strong blue cheese rushes towards me. Fergus is the only one of us that can bear it, teasing us for preferring a mild Brie or Cheddar, and I wonder whether Mel will throw it away now or leave it to fester. Milk in my hand, I close the fridge. It’s covered with photos of Melissa, Fergus and Ryan and I try not to linger on them. There’s one of the four of us, with Connor and Ryan when they were small. The boys holding hands as they toddled into the sea.