“Oh, that’s nice. Mags it is, then.” Luke takes a step towards me and then checks. “I almost forgot,” he mutters and reaches to the side of the door and pulls out a huge flat object covered in a drop cloth. “This is for you,” he says brightly. I stand open-mouthed, and he raises his eyebrow. “Shall I put it in your flat, then?”

I flush and stand back. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

He walks in, staggering under the weight of the object, and I gesture him into the lounge. He sets the object down with a sigh of relief. Then his gaze travels over the floor, where seemingly every record and CD I possess is strewn.

“Music lover, eh?” he says brightly. “I’m the same. Are you organising them?” His brow wrinkles at the thought, and I want to smile at the memory of his chaotic flat.

“I was making a mixtape,” I say somewhat reluctantly.

“Ah. Laurie had some of those from an old boyfriend. I remember him playing them over and over until I wanted to shoot whoever wrote ‘Careless Whisper.’”

“It was George Michael,” I say.

He continues to gaze down at the records, obviously coming to the undeniable and pathetic conclusion that I was making a tape for his brother. I want to fall through the floor. I’m sure he’s seeing the way I sat on the floor in the early hours of the morning, four sheets to the wind after drinking a bottle of whisky, and feverishly choosing music that would tell Laurie what I feel. I look at the cassette on the table and wonder whether it will fit down the waste disposal.

Inexplicably, however, Luke seems almost relieved. He gestures to the object under the drop cloth. “So, open it.”

“Now?”

His brow wrinkles. “Yes, of course.”

I sigh, and stepping forward, I grab one end of the cloth and tug. It falls to the floor, and I stare at what I’ve uncovered. It’s one of Laurie’s paintings. I’d recognise those confident brushstrokes and wonderful use of colour anywhere, but this picture is unlike anything I’ve seen before. It’s a fantastical view of London painted in almost psychedelic colours. At the centre is me at my desk with a frown of concentration on my face, but all around me are London’s landmarks in a crazy hodgepodge. I step closer. The bookshop is on there, as are the bingo hall, Lincoln’s Inn, the Old Bailey, and the Blue Bridge. It’s beautiful and whimsical and so like him that it makes my heart hurt.

“He said to tell you that you have a shit view, and he painted you a better one,” his brother says softly.

I turn to him. “Is he at the flat?”

He shakes his head and my spirits—which had risen at the sight of the painting—fall again. “No. He went home yesterday.”