I focused on her toe. Bobbing serenely in the water. But the photograph had been captured in its entirety. The glass of Martin. The ashtray. Burnt-out cigarette perched on the toilet lid. Her diary watermarked on the floor. The contrast of the red water against her blue skin.

I shut the door. Threw up on the landing. And I haven’t stopped throwing up since.

When I called the ambulance, the operator told me to check if she was still breathing.

‘I can’t,’ I said.

She told me I needed to. So they’d know if she was still alive.

The door squeaked as I pushed it open. But I couldn’t look again. I couldn’t. I screamed down the phone she was dead.

‘I’m sorry, Constance. The ambulance will be there any minute now . . . You’re being so brave.’

She thought I’d checked the pulse, but I hadn’t. She may have had one. She could have still been alive.

I let her die twice.

So that was it. I’d told him. As I’m telling you now. All that time rotting me from the inside. Would anything have been different if you’d known? Would you have hated me more, loved me more?

When I’d stopped talking, I was perched on the cold windowsill on the other side of Franco’s office. My thumbs still dancing partners. My cheeks chaffed from salted tears.

He’d remained in his chair throughout. Unnoticed by me, he’d removed his scarf and coat, as they were now draped on the back of his seat. He held no notes.

‘Come and sit down, Constance,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

I followed his instruction and took the chair opposite him once more.

‘How are you feeling now?’ he said.

‘I . . . I don’t know.’

‘I’d like to thank you for telling me this. It was very courageous of you. How many other people have you told? Or know?’

‘That she killed herself, or that it was my fault?’

He blinked slowly with a half-smile. ‘That she killed herself.’