But swollen eyes and vacant looks didn’t deter Alison’s jabbering about her sponsored walk and how she raised nearly £300 for cancer. Like that would help.

On one of my trips to the toilet, I texted you. Said I’d been looking forward to seeing you. Was disappointed you weren’t there. You didn’t respond. So I tried calling when on a sneaky fag break, but it rang out. Though I guessed you’d be busy.

Later, at Edward’s, I couldn’t stop looking towards your blackened windows in the hope of your return before I had to leave.

‘Are you OK, darling girl? You’re very distracted today.’

‘Sorry, Edward. It’s just . . . it’s my mum’s birthday. I’ve been a bit upset, that’s all. It’s crazy really. It’s no different to any other day.’

‘Is that so?’ He pushed himself up off the chair before huffing his way over to a drawer in the huge cabinet and pulled out a yellowed vintage shoebox. I followed him.

‘Push that stuff to the side,’ he said, gesturing to the pile of papers and unidentifiable machine parts covering the dining table. Doing so exposed previously unseen shiny mahogany, which I couldn’t help but stroke. ‘Oh, this is lovely. You really must clear—’

‘Yes, yes . . . never mind that.’ He placed the box down.

I focused on the multicoloured, bruised skin of his hands as he lifted the lid.

‘Crazy, you say.’

Inside was a mass of white envelopes of various sizes. A name scrawled on each. When I dipped my head towards the box, I realized they all said, Amy.

‘If you’re crazy just being sad, how bat-shit does this make me?’

I wanted to open one, but he didn’t offer, so I didn’t ask.

‘Every birthday I write her a card. Tell her I love her. That I may be joining her for her next one.’ Embarrassed, he scrambled for the lid and replaced it. ‘You’re right, though,’ he said. ‘It is ridiculous.’

I moved closer to him. Dropped my head onto his chest. ‘No . . . no, I promise you it’s not at all.’

He reached his arms around me, bony and cold. Kissed the top of my head. And I felt a comfort, safety, that I didn’t want to end.

We remained there, within our private thoughts. Lost. Swaying. Until he said, ‘This better hadn’t all be because you’ve forgotten my Bovril.’