Once I’d inserted the key into the main door to Edward’s, it barely moved a millimetre side to side. After cursing the man from Timpson, I realized I’d been using yours by mistake. Guilt triggered, I unzipped the rarely used inside pocket of my bag and dropped them into the darkness, out of sight. Out of my mind.

‘Hello, darling girl.’ Edward was reading in bed when I entered. His room was depressing and carried illness in the air. He removed his reading glasses before placing the American Civil War book across his chest.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

‘Well, I think my dream of being an Olympic triathlete is over.’

‘Hey, don’t be so negative.’

‘You made me laugh. You’re a miracle worker. Though it was an internal chuckle, so there’s work to do yet.’

I lifted the shopping bags. ‘I’ll just sort this out and get your soup.’

Considering my room was a perpetual slobbish embarrassment, it was strange that Edward’s grimy kitchen upset me so much. There was little difference between the dirty pots piled next to the stagnant sink water and the supposedly clean ones sat on open shelves or hanging from hooks. Filth dulled the orange of the Sixties flowered tiles to a tan. I didn’t understand why I cared. Why I couldn’t bear that he lived that way. But I had a once-in-a-lifetime urge to clean, to make it nicer for him. So, once Edward was all set up with his food, I pushed up my sleeves, put on some ancient rubber gloves that I found under the sink and got stuck in.

Don’t think that I wasn’t continuously aware of your proximity. Imagining what I was missing. I was every bit the addict waiting for a hit. Yet there was enjoyment in the anticipation and so I remained focused on what I needed to do.

As I saw the change, colours coming to life, I wondered why I didn’t do it more often. Cleaning. There was something therapeutic in the monotony. Genuine joy from witnessing results. I pressed my hand hard against the tiles. Scrubbing with the sponge, left, right, left, right . . . dipped the sponge back in the bowl. Left, right, left, right. The repetitious hypnotic action glazed my eyes. I fixated on a tile. A stubborn stain. But as I stared, the tile changed shape and colour. Turned white. And suddenly I was scrubbing away at bloodstained grout.

The sound of a plate smashing to the floor propelled me back into the room.

‘Is everything OK in there?’ Edward shouted.

I tried to sound normal. ‘Yes, fine . . . How’s the soup?’

‘A little like diarrhoea.’

I bent down and collected the pieces of brown-rimmed ceramic into my useless fumbling hands and winced at the noise as it tumbled into the bin.