Requiring more, I scanned the room for the likeliest place Edward would have stored some old whisky or an ancient port. The bottom cupboard in the dresser was a strong possibility.

Kneeling in front of the huge mahogany piece, I pulled on a warped and reticent door, which opened with a sudden jolt and a waft of musty air. It wasn’t the cocktail bar I’d hoped for, but an abundance of photographs that avalanched onto me. Once the flow stopped, I collected them up and was forced to look. Many were so old they were backed in card, not flimsy photographic paper. Black and white. Sepia. Gnarled corners, white creases. I recognized the eyes. Even more piercing with the contrast of darkened prints. Edward as a toddler, Edward as a teen playing cricket, Edward as a pageboy, Edward as a living, vibrant, youthful being. Edward. A whole life. In a cupboard.

The images blurred. Not because of alcohol but because I was finally crying. I stood. Dropped the memories to my feet. Looked over at his chair. The ocean was here again, but I didn’t have the will to swim, so I grabbed my bag and left.

Marinated in vodka, I felt invisible when I entered your flat.

I’d tried to remain on Edward’s outside steps, but the snow had thickened, like the time Dad took me sledging in Heaton Park. It was so cold even the alcohol ceased to insulate me and I could feel my core temperature dropping. I’d tried to call you again, but you didn’t pick up. I’m not blaming you, but if you’d just picked up . . .

When I checked my phone, I was confused that it was just turning ten again. Then I remembered that Colin was fast. I had around an hour until your return, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d planned to be in there nowhere near as long as that.

Inside, I instantly calmed.

My first stop was the kitchen, in search of top-up anaesthetic. I found the bottle of brandy you’d loosened me with that night. It looked untouched since. Fiona didn’t need it. I unscrewed the top and unleashed the scent of that day. Your breath as we kissed.

The calendar entry for your meeting with Laura was still stuck on the fridge, humiliating me. As I stared at it, I gulped the fiery spirit until it lodged, hot, inside my chest. Sedated, I returned the bottle to the cupboard, lax about exact positioning. When I turned to leave, the room appeared disjointed and I had to blink repeatedly to recalibrate my vision.