Not serious? About anything? Is there any truth in that?

Perhaps.

It’s times like this I wish I smoked. Something to do with my hands. I’ve got a gin and tonic, but the ice has melted, making my palms cold and sticky. I wipe them on my dress, trying not to drift off into the dreamy land where Jack can sometimes still be so present. Lately, he’s been popping up in my actual dreams, which – if I’m honest – is an absolute fucker. At least when I’m awake I can maintain some sort of control, but when he’s there, at night, in some random mashup of Thailand and London and high school and a random clock tower, a place that doesn’t exist any more than he does, I have no control. So I enjoy. I believe. I fly. I kiss him and God, I feel so aroused. Then I wake up. And for what can be minutes, maybe even an hour, I lie there part-convinced that the dream was real. Until I remember, and I don’t want to wake up ever again. So I just lie there, in a heavy fog, taking as long as it takes to sit up, swing my legs out of bed and eventually stand.

‘God, I wish you were here,’ I say.

The bandstand creaks; the scuffle of a footstep.

‘Alright, Tilly Mint!’ It’s my dad. He’s left his jacket inside and looks smart in his waistcoat, his shirt sleeves rolled up like a bootlegger, ironically, as he’s holding a cup of tea with a saucer. He’s been nervous about everything running smoothly today and has hardly touched a drop of the free-flowing alcohol he offered to foot the bill for. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Jack,’ I tell him.

My dad’s shoulders drop a little, as does his face.

‘Do you see him, my love?’

I shake my head.

‘’Cause I won’t think you’re mad, you know. I used to see me dad.’

‘I know. He told you I was choking.’

‘D’you remember?’

‘No, I remember the story. And I’ve no reason not to believe you.’

He scans the gardens surrounding us, almost as if he’s looking for my grandad to appear. Then he puts his cup of tea down, stuffs his hands into his pockets and sits beside me.

‘Uncle Frank whispered in me ear how he was sorry for me loss,’ I tell my dad. ‘And I wish Jack had been here, alive. That short conversation could’ve been so, so bloody different.’

He doesn’t say anything. He does give me a little squeeze though.

‘You know what, Dad? Jack never got to see me all dressed up like this. We never made it to a wedding together. The last time he wore a suit was the night we met.’