‘I was, however, living with my parents. When it happened. The driver of the van had a heart attack. Whilst driving. His son was in the passenger seat and apparently had tried to take over the wheel. He went straight through the windscreen from the driver’s side. The driver was dead before the van even hit Jack. Case. Closed.’

My eyes close. If I keep them open, I’ll see the road through the front window, the exact road where Freddie’s story took place. But now, I see my own version emerging from the blackness of my eyelids. I force my eyes open; engage with Jack’s brother.

‘Did you know he had a day in lieu?’ I say. ‘It’s why he was off work. If he’d gone in—’

‘STOP! I’m done. Remember? I told you. I told you before. Done.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No. I am. Sorry. But I’m freaked, you know. Really freaked.’

Another bus hurtles past, a double decker this time. Freddie retrieves his bag.

‘And THAT,’ he says, any serenity in his voice gone. ‘Fucking THAT!’

He’s referring to the wall above the cooker, the blood draining from his round, smooth face. It’s the man sat in the shopping trolley. I glance up and swear Ronald McDonald blinks, bows his head a little. It’s like when I went to Speke Hall in Liverpool as a kid; the eyes on the paintings followed you around the room, and we told each other stories of the Pink Lady and the Grey Lady to evoke nightmares. But I’m not scared. There’s no mystery to this picture, and God, nothing to be feared. It’s just Bangkok market tat.

‘Anyway. Bye, Chloe. I’ve got to get out of here.’

‘I should go, too.’

‘Why?’

The new sofas and carpet are enough to remind me I don’t live here any more.

‘Look,’ Freddie says, waving his hand, ‘don’t answer me. I don’t want to talk any more. I’m tired, you know. I need a coffee. Like, now. A proper one – not the instant shit I found in that cupboard. Fuck. That picture is just – I can’t – I mean … Chloe. Have a good life. Bye.’

The front door slams shut, and I freeze. I keep my breaths small, discreet.

Nothing creaks. No bus rattles the windows. The Quorn bolognese tickles my nostrils and whets my taste buds. The ski lesson is still Sellotaped to the fridge and for the first time, I see the funny side, imagining Jack clapping his big hands and howling at my pathetic efforts. I unpick the tape, rip the email in half, then half again, and pop it into the recycling.

‘We did it,’ I say. ‘Kinda.’