‘Don’t mind me, will you!’ I shout, as he cuts across my path, seeking shelter beneath the arched porch entrance of the closest house.

‘Sorry!’ he shouts, fumbling with a set of keys.

‘Rhys?’ I ask. This is all I need.

‘Kat?’

I look up at the sky, trying to work out at what point the universe thought it appropriate to not only furnish me with a shitty ex-boyfriend but, upon realising that was the case and crumbling into a filmic mess, throw me into a tricky work-related situation where I am supposed to be the epitome of control.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

‘Me, yeah, fine.’ I wipe my face again, and my nose. Just in case. He looks up and down the road, then back to me.

‘Are you?’ I ask, suddenly aware that he looks like he’s been crying too. ‘Is everything okay, Rhys?’ Concern for him replaces my own self-consciousness. I move down the path towards him. He pushes wet hair back off his face and wipes his eyes.

‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Never better.’

I think about Daniel and the beauty. I think about Daniel’s mum and the look of pity on her face. I think about Lou and her teasing about the plumber. And I look at the plumber, who is clearly no more fine than I am. I sigh. ‘Nothing a good drink wouldn’t sort? I must admit intravenous gin would definitely help me right now.’

Rhys looks at me, squinting through the rain, nodding in agreement.

‘Look, I should…’ He signals up to the house.

‘Course, nice place,’ I say gesturing up to the house as he collects three unopened milk bottles from the top step. ‘I always imagined living in one of these one day.’ Or rather, I scoured the internet on a regular basis looking for a forever home, without realising Daniel didn’t really want one.

‘It’s not mine…’ His words trail off but I’ve already turned away. I need to get home. I need to get out of these clothes. I need to hide in the bath with a copy of Bridget Jones and my own deep-seated feeling of failure.

‘It’s Susan’s house,’ he says, quietly. So quietly, in fact, I almost miss it. I turn back to face him. ‘This is Susan’s house,’ he repeats.

I look up at the clean, cream-painted wooden windows; the rose bush that climbs the red brick of the 1950s house. Blousy pink petals strain beneath the weight of the weather. There’s that collection of milk from the doorstep.

‘You took the key,’ I whisper.

‘She gave me the key,’ he corrects.

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘Of course it does.’I look up and down the road, then back up to the house, before turning to Rhys. ‘Did she say what she wants?’

‘A book.’

‘That’s it? You’re getting dragged into her life like this for a book?’

‘If it helps her, yes,’ he says firmly, folding his arms tight. We stand in silence for a moment before he turns his back. ‘She asked me to collect it. That’s what I’m here to do. Stay or go; it’s up to you. But I’m doing this to help her.’