As I cleared up the shards of china, Jenny offered to take Digby out; she’d often walked him for me while I was recuperating. I hated this biting cold and I had work to do for next week’s shows so I accepted gladly. I suddenly felt exhausted and my leg hurt. I sank onto the sofa, closing my eyes, just for a moment …

I dreamed I was playing croquet with my mother on Pendarlin’s lawn, and someone was hammering the hoops into the ground and urgently calling my name. I woke up with a start, my sweaty face stuck to the leather cushion I lay on. It took me a second to realise someone really was knocking and calling my name.

Hauling myself off the sofa, the phone began to ring. I picked it up, my eyes still half-shut. A click; a dialling tone. Gormless with sleep, I dropped the receiver back into the cradle and staggered towards the persistent hammering.

‘All right, I’m coming.’ I flung the door back in bad temper.

‘About time.’ Alex pushed past me into the flat.

‘Come in, why don’t you,’ I said to the empty street, to the glowering grey sky, to the single tree stripped naked by November’s chilly wind and the train clanking overhead. ‘I thought you were in Glasgow?’

‘Going back on Wednesday. Can I get a cup of coffee?’ He was already bounding up the stairs into the kitchen. ‘It’s bloody freezing out.’ He blew on his hands.

I followed him more slowly, still hampered by my foot. ‘Hung over?’ I was waspish because I didn’t know how else to be; fighting myself already.

‘Hung over?’ Alex actually grinned, his long eyes creasing up. I used to love the way they did that. Oh God. I was fighting the part of me that wanted to run across the kitchen and launch myself into his arms, to breathe in his familiar smell, the smell I couldn’t get enough of in the old days. And I despised myself; I held myself in check, telling myself firmly it was my mind just playing tricks.

‘No, I’m not hung over. I’m on the wagon.’

I stared at him without comprehension.

‘Yeah, it’s been about five months now.’ So very proud of himself. He ran a hand through his short scruffy hair.

‘Five months?’ I intoned dully. Five months ago I had nearly died. Five months ago we separated forever. Abstinence that he’d refused for me, he’d managed in his new-won freedom. For a moment I didn’t trust myself to speak.