Sam is napping after a light feed. It won’t be long before he sleeps through the night. Maddy switches the kitchen light on. It’s dark outside and the gales have passed, but the rain is relentless, like it might never stop. She pours herself a glass of Merlot then rips off a piece of fresh baguette. Lifting the cloth covering the brie, she digs the bread in its creamy ripeness. The taste is tangy and moreish, like nothing she’s ever eaten before. She knocks back the wine and pours another. It’s so smooth and fruity, the best wine she’s ever tasted.

In the living room, she settles in front of the television with the lights off and switches on a recording of the Proms, which starts with Monteverdi’s ‘Arianna’s Lament’. The music lights a touch paper in her body, all her senses on high alert. Standing at the patio door, a rumble of thunder rolls its drums and lightning flashes through the cloudy sky. It’s the most incredible sight she’s ever seen. Mother’s voice is louder and clearer than ever: This is your special moment, you’re in the midst of a miracle.

After the Proms has finished, she hears a light tap, tap on the front door. At first she doesn’t want to answer it, but the tap, tapping grows louder. Answer it, Mother tells her. The person has their back to her at first but turns at the sound of the door opening. It is a man with a goatee beard, wearing a raincoat, the hood hanging over his eyes. She slowly shakes her head.

‘Maddy, it’s me.’ The man steps forward into the light of the open porch.

Her eyes blur with tears. His voice unlatches a lock inside her, she is shaking all over.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she shouts and shoves him in the chest.

He staggers back, loses his balance and lands on the wet path. He pulls himself up and throws back his hood. His blond hair is soaked in seconds. She cups her hand around her mouth, muffling a cry. Neither of them speaks while she studies his face, still unable to believe it’s really him. But there’s the passing grin Max gives when he’s nervous, the tiny mole under his eye, the full Elvis Presley lips. She sways as blackness tries to envelop her. She reaches out to the porch wall, her head swimming. He’s alive! In a surge of euphoria, she grabs both his arms and shakes him. But images of him with Alison bleed into her mind. The surge of love drains down the gutter with the rain. She turns back inside, leaving the door wide open.

He follows her into the kitchen. They stand either side of the table.

‘Where’ve you been for six whole weeks?’

‘Sheffield.’