Beth straightens her skirt as she stands and hooks her bag on her arm. She shakes out both hands as if she’s just washed them and the hand-dryer is broken. A shiver envelops her before she pulls herself together.

‘Enough of this,’ she says. ‘I can’t be indulging in this soft chitchat any longer, babes. I’m off. Got a ton of things to tick off me list before the morning. I’ll ring you on me lunch tomoz. Okay?’

I blow her a kiss.

A single gust of wind brushes a few stray leaves around my feet. Autumn is on the horizon. The new term is imminent. Beth turns left and disappears down a residential street of Victorian terraces, where every window has white ledges and matching wooden shutters. I check my phone and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing a reply from Si.

Aggggghhhhhh. I’m in Bruges! Back on Saturday AM. X

Fan-fucking-tastic.

There are a few more messages – afterthoughts to his response: Am I back for good? How did my mum react? Have I had a change of heart about teaching? Did I want to watch the first week of Strictly with him this Saturday night?

This is all lovely. Truly, it is.

But it doesn’t solve my current situation.

I’m going to have to take advantage of the key sitting at the bottom of my satchel.

And with an ache that could break me into jagged pieces, I head south on the tube.

30

The aroma of warm tomato sauce greets me. Onions. Garlic. Minced meat?

Nothing smells familiar.

I throw my key into the blue Marrakech dish and put my denim jacket on the coat rack. I notice instantly how it hangs tidily, with ease, with no large garments to contend with. In fact, the narrow hallway is somewhat brighter, as if a few extra inches have been added either side. There’s a sense of out with the old, in with the new. Jack’s coats are gone.

The floorboard creaks beneath my Converse and I freeze mid-walk, splay my fingers to keep my balance. I feel like an intruder. Tiptoeing closer to the kitchen, the smell of bolognese gets stronger.

OH! GOD!

My chest drops into my belly, like when you go down the steep part of a rollercoaster and you wonder whether you might’ve shat yourself. Just a bit. But you recover quickly. Relief comes as quickly as the shock did … I haven’t shat myself.

But that hunch over the hob, stirring the sauce. That chin, cocked out in concentration.

It’s Jack.

It’s his brother. Freddie.