On the way home one evening, I took a trip to my lock-up to drop off some boxes that were cluttering up the shop. I also wanted to look out some bits of old jewellery that I’d collected over the years. I kept the lock-up – a large double garage in a car park in Highgate – to store bits of furniture and items that didn’t fit in my current home, but that I didn’t want to get rid of. When I got there, I went inside, switched on the light and almost gave up there and then. I’d forgotten there was so much stuff crammed in. Stuart had helped me shift some of it after Richard and I had broken up, and I can still see him struggling with curtains, pictures, mirrors, endless boxes, and making me laugh as he feigned backache, knee-ache and even toothache. He’d been a tremendous help, and I remembered one particular afternoon especially, because there was something in the air – maybe because I’d just reclaimed my freedom, or was on the rebound but, at one point, I slipped on a bit of bubble wrap and fell into him. He reached out to help me stand up and, for a brief second in his arms, I felt a tug of chemistry, drawing me to him. We both pulled back and busied ourselves immediately, and it never happened again, but that same intensity has hung in the air on occasion when we’re in close proximity, heads bent over papers or accounts. I’ve always had to remind myself that he is married and whatever I felt that afternoon was just wishful thinking on my part.

I began to shift things until I came to the boxes that might possibly hold what I wanted. I opened the nearest and sifted through books, paper, more bags of beads and old jewellery that I’d picked up over time. An old album with a red velvet cover was at the bottom and, as I pulled it out, a few loose photographs fell out. I made a make-do chair on a box heavy with books and opened the album. It had been years since I’d looked at it and there he was, smiling out at me from the pages: Graham White, a typical photo with him in his gardening togs at the allotment, our dog Casper by his side.

It was painfully noticeable to me that no one talked about him any more, aware that it would be opening an old wound, one that none of them could heal because there was no going back there. But I wanted to consider the option. If there was a shred of truth in what Saranya Ji had said, had Graham been my Billy and I’d had my time with him?

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