At the pub, Howard was in more of a mind to celebrate his payoff than to commiserate the demise of Nature’s Best. His farewell was a jovial event, unlike the depressing exits of last year. For the entire evening, he slugged at the bottle of sherry I’d gifted him. But from the moment we arrived at The White Horse, I wanted to go home. Apart from anything else, I wanted to sort things out with Jordan. To check my boyfriend wasn’t ready to hang up on me permanently. For the longest time, Jordan didn’t answer his phones. I left several messages on his mobile, including an apology, and a joke about the cleaning fumes in the cupboard perhaps getting to my head before I’d thought to ask about his choice of wearing underpants to bed. I’d hoped Jordan would call me back and we’d laugh it off – everything that had been falling apart between us lately. Time passed, the crowd thinned, and I didn’t hear a peep. When someone suggested we move on after last orders at the pub, I was first in. Let Jordan sweat about where I might be, I’d thought. Let him miss me, I’d hoped. That might show him.

I downed several shots in a dingy bar before I realised my team weren’t with me, Howard had slunk off home and I barely knew the people I was with. Uber rates surged, but there were no rides anyway. It took me some time mooching along Shaftsbury Avenue to find a black cab to take me home. Tottering outside in the winter cold in my fancy heels, I looked like one of those girls who might shortly empty her stomach in the back seat. I remember Faith being nice to me as I collapsed in the hallway at home. I don’t remember anything about making it into bed.

I roll over to one side. Jesus, Mary and mother of God, my hip is on fire! I return carefully to the flat of my back.

Having finished regaling me with the latest village gossip, my mother says, ‘your father will want a quick hello. I’ll just go get him.’ Clunking the phone down, she calls out, ‘Derek, Grace is on the phone. Come say hello. She’s not feeling well.’

I picture my father getting up from in his wing-chair in the front room, where he was inevitably happily absorbed with the papers, and dragging his slippers down the hallway to the kitchen. After lunch, my parents will pull on their wellies and amble for several hours across the local fields, hail or shine.

My father clears his throat into the mouthpiece.

‘Morning, Grace.’

‘Morning, Daddy.’

‘How are you, dear? Your mother says not well?’

‘Oh no, I’m fine, really.’

‘Good-oh. How’s the weather in London? We’re getting a lot of rain down here.’