A warm glow filters from the tall lamp in the lounge out onto the flower bed beside the driveway, yellow and purple petals highlighted like miniature stepping-stones. Our neighbours, the couple who live in the second-floor flat, are the keen gardeners, not me or Jack. They keep the front of the house looking delightful with hanging baskets and kindly mow the communal back lawn, too. I wonder if they know about Jack yet. There’s no flicker from the telly or noise that I can make out, so John and Trish must be in bed. Our bed. My bed.

I check my phone is on silent and notice a reply from Beth. I’d sent her a message after subconsciously arriving at the tube station, telling her I was sorry for running off like that but that I just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

I understand babes. I’m here for you whenever the time is right. Love you xxx

I slide my key into the door and open it with minimal disruption.

He’s there; everywhere. Jack.

The musty smell of his parka. The dried mud from his giant wellies that he never cleaned after last year’s Glastonbury. The hints of aftershave that always linger from his overspray in the morning, leaving me to get dressed within a cloud of manly spice. The lemongrass candle from Thailand that we only light on Friday nights when we’re both home.

He’s just here.

I tiptoe along the narrow hallway in the dark, cursing each creaky floorboard beneath the weathered Persian carpet runner. The bedroom door is closed, so I turn in to where the lamplight greets me. The small lounge and kitchen are open-plan, separated by the breakfast bar. This room is one of the things I love about this cosy place. I throw my satchel onto the L-shaped sofa and notice an imprint in the seat belonging to Jack. It’s too big to be John’s and although I haven’t met Trish, I know she’s a petite woman. She happens to be a celebrity journalist and I’ve seen her on the telly, talking on panel shows.

‘Where are you?’ I whisper. ‘I know you’re here. You have to be here.’

I kick off my Converse. There’s a chill in the room, a reminder that the heatwave is temporary and summer will be inconsistent as usual. I pour myself a glass of water. I drink it thirstily in one go and catch a glimpse of the canvas print hanging above the cooker; the man in the shopping trolley.