‘I thought it was a problem with the bank?’

‘It is. Something between the finance department and the bank. I don’t really know. All far too complicated for me.’

‘How are you paying for things?’ I ask.

Tom shrugs. ‘There’s not much to pay for. He’s been forwarding me a bit of cash to keep things going in the meantime. It’s fine, these things happen. I’m not worried, so you definitely don’t need to be.’

‘I am worried, though, Tom. I’m not made of money. Do you think it’ll come in before the end of the month?’

‘Honestly? I’ve no idea, babe.’

‘Because if it doesn’t I’m going to max out my overdraft. There’ll be nothing left.’

Tom scratches his head. ‘Can’t you speak to your parents?’

‘And say what?’

‘I don’t know. The truth. Tell them the finance department have fucked up at work and what with Christmas and everything you’re having cashflow issues.’

‘I can’t do that, Tom. You know I can’t. They stopped subbing me when you moved in. And I’m not going back to them after everything that’s happened.’

Tom shrugs again. ‘I dunno. Maybe. But there’s not a whole lot we can do about it, is there?’

I watch as he trundles back up the stairs towards the bathroom, leaving me with the metaphorical mess downstairs.

25

Tuesday 4 February

It’s the day of Nan’s funeral. It isn’t a day I’ve been looking forward to, but one I’ve been looking forward to getting out of the way.

It looks as if there’s going to be a good turnout. Nan had made a lot of friends over the years through the church — something else which helped us ensure the funeral arrangements were sorted out quickly — and it was heartening to see so many of her friends and family from around the country, and further afield, saying they wanted to come to pay their last respects.

Tom’s been incredibly supportive, too. He’s spent most of the rest of the time working, keeping an eye on things from home and trying to deal with the work project from his laptop. It doesn’t seem to be causing any problems, which has put me at ease.

We’re due to meet the rest of the family at my parents’ in a couple of hours, and Tom’s busy working on his laptop while I get ready. As I’m doing my make-up, I catch sight of the computer screen in the mirror. It looks familiar.

‘I thought you said it was best for us to hide our social media profiles?’ I ask him, trying to make it sound as casual and non-combative as possible.

‘I did,’ he says, after a short pause. ‘I’m just checking on some work stuff on Facebook. I’ve got a dummy account for that, under a false name so I can keep an eye on things. No way around that, unfortunately.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘I can’t say,’ he says, shutting me down immediately.

I don’t know much about the ins and outs of Tom’s job — it always seems way beyond me – but I didn’t think it had anything much to do with Facebook or social media.