I find it equally satisfying that I now stop working at the weekends and nights so we can be together. And we’ve used the time properly. We travel a lot, visiting all the places that I wanted to, and one shelf on the bookcase is dedicated to travel guides. Their bright colours make me smile every time I catch sight of them.

We still have that map that he crumpled up in the bookstore, and Jesse insists that we’ll visit one day and find the remains of the ancient barrow. I’ve agreed because I think I’ll propose to him there. The thought doesn’t even raise an inch of freaked out in me now. Just a desire to make us permanent and absolute.

Maybe that’s because I’m finally happy and whole. I’m me. I’m Zeb Evans, not Eddie Evans’s son, and I feel free to embrace the good characteristics I got from my dad without thinking I’m going to succumb to his worst ones. I know I can be funny like him and that I can command people’s attention without having to then run off and marry seven people and rack up debts. Most of all, I know that by giving in and living my life fully, I’m not going to become him. I’m me, and I’m finally happy with that version because Jesse loves it.

I shrug and run my fingers through his silky hair. Then I ease quietly out of bed, shaking my head at Clarence who is perched on the end of the bed looking at me with bright eyes.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be,” I whisper as I step into my khaki shorts and pull on a navy T-shirt. I edge into the bathroom and clean my teeth quietly and then wander out to the lounge to grab his lead. I shake my head and tut as I kick my feet into Jesse’s trainers that are, as normal, lying abandoned on the floor. He’s like a very contained cyclone to live with.

“We’ll go and get him some breakfast,” I whisper to Clarence who dances about when he sees the lead. I clatter down the stairs and out into the early morning bustle of Neal’s Yard. When he’s had a wee outside, I put in our usual order at the bakery of some lemon curd doughnuts and the raisin loaf that Jesse loves, exchanging greetings with the lady behind the counter and answering questions about Jesse. I’ve lived here for ten years, and yet it’s Jesse who knows all the shopkeepers. I’ve often thought rather fancifully that he’s the bridge between the world and my insular tendencies. I can’t retreat behind my walls when he’s blown massive bloody holes in them.