‘You’re not dealing with this, Mag,’ chided Bel when she called, but then fortunately Hannah had decorated the kitchen wall with Bel’s new bright pink lipstick and Bel needed to go and shout at her, so I escaped yet more psychoanalysis by a whisker. For the time being, at least.

I did realise that I must get up sometime. Digby kept nipping at the duvet, desperate to escape our four walls. I ignored him as he ran in rings round the bed, gazing at the dinosaur-shaped stain on the ceiling, the stain that had existed for as long as I could remember. But even I was getting bored now. Woman’s Hour was wittering on about inequality in the workplace and then Jenni Murray announced that next up was the inimitable Renee Owen to talk about growing up in the valleys with nothing but an alcoholic father and seventeen siblings, her amazing success against all the odds – and I groaned with disgust and threw a pillow at the radio. It missed, sending my latest mug of cold tea splashing all over the pale carpet. And then the doorbell rang.

I thumped down the stairs in my mum’s old frilly dressing-gown that I’d never had the heart to throw out, and the spotty youth at the front door blushed as bright as one of my father’s prize tomatoes. I wondered if I still had it, if I’d ever had it, and then I saw the flowers and nearly gagged. Lilies again.

‘For me? Are you sure?’

‘Maggie Warren, it says here. That you?’ He couldn’t quite drag his eyes from the gaping dressing-gown.

‘Yes, that’s me. Do you know who they’re from?’

He drew his hood closer round his chilly crew-cut and gave his clipboard a cursory glance. He shrugged. ‘No name, man. I just deliver ’em. Look at the card, why don’t you?’

Frowning, I leaned my crutch against the door and fumbled with the flimsy little envelope. It was speared amid the blooms that strained out to the light, that made me think only of death. A gust of wind sent a flurry of raindrops from the withered creeper above me pattering down on my head. I couldn’t extract the card until the envelope ripped clean in two, exposing the bald text.

‘To Maggie, with dying gratitude.’ My skin prickled. I turned the card over, but there was no name anywhere. I shivered as the hoody shoved the flowers at me, kept my arms clamped by my side, the card still between my cold fingers. ‘Are you sure you don’t know who they’re from?’

‘I tol’ you already.’ He was surly with offence. ‘I’m not lying. Do you wan’ ’em or not?’

‘I suppose.’ Reluctantly, I took the waxy flowers. Pollen from the swollen stamen speckled my naked arm. ‘Thanks.’ I licked my finger but I couldn’t get the pollen stain off.