‘I’ll drop you at the station . . .’ Your words seemed to trail off, distracted, as you looked in your rear-view mirror. ‘Shit. Harris.’

You pushed my head down hard, causing me to knock it on the open glove compartment. I remained down in the uncomfortable position, rubbing my temple as you revved the engine and waved to Dr Harris as you drove away.

Snow fell.

You switched on your wipers as the large, delicate flakes transformed to slush on contact with the window.

We were silent for most of the journey. You didn’t even bother with music. But as the flurry multiplied, I said, ‘Do you feel your mum is around you when it snows? That it’s saying she’s with you?’

‘You mean, do I think the natural process of cold clouds turning water vapours into snow is actually a message from my dead mother? No, I don’t . . . You’re so funny, Constance.’

As we approached the station, you pulled up on the double yellow line. ‘Sorry, Constance. I don’t mean to rush you . . . I just don’t want to get a ticket . . . but you have a nice birthday . . . And thank you.’

The hall was filled with the aroma of spices. My salivary glands pulsed, hunger triggered. Then they were shot dead by guilt.

‘Hi . . . I’m back. I’m just dropping off my coat and stuff in my room,’ I shouted.

When I’d stood by the lights of High Street Kensington, watching you speed away, the contrast between the crusted white residue and the black wool of my coat was glaring. I’d purchased a bottle of water, a pack of baby wipes and the morning-after pill from Boots, then facing into a corner in the arcade, set about erasing the stain. Once home, however, I was still aware of the faint ghost that lingered.

Free of evidence, I followed the smells to the kitchen. Took a deep breath and prepared to play my role.

‘Wow, this all looks amazing.’ A white cloth covered the table, restaurant-like. Two unlit candles in glass candlesticks I’d never seen before were surrounded by poppadoms and ramekins filled with various coloured dips. A bottle of white wine. Matching glasses.

‘Take a seat, Birthday Girl. Just on time.’ He dropped a sauce-coated spoon onto the kitchen side before flicking a tea towel onto his shoulder, in that clichéd way men do.

He struck a match near the candles, then blew it out. ‘Actually, shall we have the big light on? I like to see when I’m eating, don’t you?’

I nodded in vague agreement. ‘What is all this?’

‘What does it look like? I’ve made dinner. My first curry from scratch, no less. Now, tell me’ – he picked up the spoon and extracted some of the bubbling liquid – ‘is it hot enough?’ He pressed the metal to my mouth until I sipped.

‘Yes . . . plenty,’ I said, an octave higher than my usual voice.