Forced to shift with you, I swirled beneath the tulle, as if we were dancers transported to a ballroom. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Teetering on the top of the stairs, arms reaching for mine, your torso leant backwards over the sweeping marble steps. I grabbed your wrist, tight, knuckles whitening. My other hand gripped the rail, which moved, unstable, back and forth. I was your counterbalance, and we were engaged in the most intimate split-second dance.

It’s funny, they say when you die your life flashes before you. But I too saw a film rush running backwards, catching moments. The day I first saw you, the drip, drip, drip of the tap, dancing to Blondie, searching the pubs of Salford for her, Dad kissing me goodbye.

And as we locked eyes, the familiarity of yours dawned on me. The creases at the corner; long, silky lashes; watery grey. They were just like his. And there it was again. Our beautiful connection. Everything I knew we were.

Then I let you go.

So there it …

So there it is. My explanation. My explanation of love.

Dr Franco was right. It has been cathartic to write it all down. Get it off my soul. Make peace with it. I hope when we meet again that you’ll find it within you to forgive me. As I have forgiven you.

I’m sorry I didn’t make the funeral. You know how I don’t like funerals, especially ones that . . . you know . . . But I knew you’d understand. You hate them too.

A few days afterwards Dr Franco visited me, said the crematorium was packed out with people singing your praises. So that’s nice.

We lit a candle for you here instead. Said a prayer. Our own little ceremony. I light one for you every night in my room. Next to the funeral booklet Alison sent me. But you probably already know that.

I don’t see anyone anymore, though, apart from Dr Franco. I still have sessions with him. Not at the surgery but at his home in Ealing. Except I pay now. Not full whack, because he still likes to think he’s helping me. But he fills me in on the goings-on.

There’s a new doctor apparently, a woman. Linda hasn’t taken to her and keeps threatening to leave. And Alison got engaged to Kevin. I promise I’m not being facetious when I say they really are made for each other.

But we mainly talk about you. Well, I do and he listens. I wish I could tell him the truth. It may help. It feels like I’m always destined to carry a guilty secret.