‘Don’t look at me like that.’ His voice is harsh, abrasive. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I might have had a shave. But then again, probably not. You’re not worth the trouble.’

I take a step towards him, and he must see something in my expression because he moves back. I give him a shove anyway, just because it makes me feel better. I see the shock register in his eyes.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he says, his voice sounding squeaky to my ears. ‘Have you lost the plot completely?’

I throw my keys on the hall table and storm into the sitting room, which is looking just as hovel-like as I expected. But I almost don’t care. It’s him – every bit of him suddenly seems repulsive, hideous, and I bend down and pick up a slice of toast from a plate on the floor and fling it towards him, Frisbee style, so it spins through the air. It hits him in the middle of his T-shirt.

‘You’re disgusting.’ I hear the sneer in my voice. I pick up the detritus from the floor and head to the kitchen. Flicking the lid of the bin open, the smell hits me before I realise that it is full to overflowing. He can’t have emptied it since I left, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust, reaching in to push everything down.

‘Shit!’ I scream as my hand hits something sharp. I pull it out quickly, but blood is pumping freely from where a piece of broken glass has pierced my palm.

Ian says nothing.

I grab a tea towel, but that is filthy too, so holding my hand above my head I march back through the sitting room and up the stairs, dripping blood in my wake, but I don’t care. The whole place will have to be scrubbed before it’s fit for anyone else to live in. In the bathroom I find the last of the clean towels and push it against my hand, but the blood is still coming. This is all I need.

Ian has followed me upstairs, looking defiant, waiting for the moment when he can tell me that none of this is his fault. It will be all down to me – for going away without him, for asking him to leave, for dragging him away from his life in London. I don’t want to hear a word of it, and I round on him, still pressing the towel hard against my hand.