On the way to the bedroom, I stepped into the lounge, switched on the light. All was fine. Still. Neat. Inspecting the room, I opened the CD player. Arthur Rubinstein. Chopin. Nocturnes. I pushed it back in and turned to leave. It was then I noticed your phone on the coffee table. Relieved you weren’t ignoring me, I pressed the home button to illuminate the screen. I forgot everything for a fleeting pleasurable moment when it displayed only my missed calls.

As I wandered back through the hall, I was losing the battle. Waves were flooding in from all directions. I needed to be closer to you, to lie on your bed, feel you cocooning me, distracting me. Was that what you’d been all along? A distraction?

In your bedroom, the tidiness both surprised and unsettled me. Clothes away. Shoes army-worthy, against the wall. Your bed made, inviting me.

Sinking onto the mattress, I closed my blurring eyes. The room spun like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz and I was haunted by images of Edward’s lifeless body, interspersed with Mum’s lifeless body. A flickering snuff movie I couldn’t switch off. Which culminated with her blue, blood-freckled face turning to look at me. I jolted upright, clammy, and staggered to the bathroom to splash my face.

Nauseous, yet unable to allow myself any release, leave evidence, I fearfully hung over the sink. Dizzying further by watching the water swirl the basin, I looked up to the mirror. It was her again, staring back at me. I blinked and she was gone.

I needed it all to stop. Distract myself further, immerse my brain with pleasant thoughts. Other thoughts. Which led me to the wardrobe. Inside the forbidden box.

The luxuriousness of the fabric took me elsewhere. Taffeta scraped across the cardboard as I dragged it free. I’d only intended to hold it against me, but as I did, a vision of Edward’s surrendered face intruded my thoughts, so I removed my coat and jumper, and slipped my skirt over my boots. Stepped inside. Allowed the frothing, rustling ocean to envelop my body. Positioning my breasts correctly into the bodice before zipping it as high as I could manage. It fitted me so well. Made to measure. Perhaps somehow it was. That I was destined to wear it.

I clipped in the delicate veil. Brought half up over my dishevelled hair to cover my face. The rest draped my back, pulling me into the correct posture as I closed my eyes, imagined you watching me glide towards you, a bouquet of white roses in hand. Nothing garish – you wouldn’t like that. Understated. The guests would gasp at my elegance. How pretty my dress was. The veil. How radiant I was beneath.