In an attempt to dispel the ghosts that had lingered since I’d arrived the previous night in a flurry of debris from the market’s busiest day, I put on a Beethoven violin concerto very loudly, made coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in and spent the morning cleaning the kitchen and conjuring up a lemon roast chicken with garlic potatoes, and a rhubarb crumble with homemade custard that even Nigel Slater would die for, whisking the eggs to within a second of perfection. Then I opened the wine ready for my dad’s arrival. I’d pulled out all the stops; I wanted to show Jenny there was no ill-feeling about the piano. I liked her a lot and, crucially, this time I didn’t want to be responsible for spoiling what might be my dad’s last chance of real happiness.

At the front door, Jenny presented me with a large cactus.

‘Oh, lovely.’ I hugged her, hoping fervently it wasn’t a symbol of something unspoken. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She smelled nice and homely; of shampoo and L’Air du Temps. Of motherly things. ‘It doesn’t need much looking after, that’s why I chose it.’ She was a little shy. ‘I thought it’d be perfect for you busy media types.’

‘So how do you feel about being back here?’ my dad asked later, polishing off the crumble as Jenny washed up.

‘It’s fine, Dad, really.’ I jumped up to collect the remaining plates. I couldn’t admit that the memories gouged agonisingly at my brain – that every time I moved across the room I saw Alex sprawled on the sofa sketching, his headphones on, winking at me as I happily threw together a bolognese or a chilli, humming to Mozart; that I felt his constant presence; that I waited for him to bound up the stairs with Digby snuffling at his heels and kiss me like he’d just remembered what living was all about. I couldn’t admit that some of the happiest days of my life had been spent here. I was desperately fighting the memories myself.

I fought a sudden rush of tears, keeping my head down as my father passed me his bowl. ‘I just need to get on with things now, don’t I? No looking back, that’s what you always say, isn’t it?’ My words were brittle and empty and I felt truly haunted actually – but my father’s look of apprehension faded.

‘That’s my girl.’ He patted my arm fondly just as I tripped over his chair-leg and dropped the crumble dish.