Kit and Gareth’s wedding invitation can come down, too. But I won’t be throwing that away. Gareth designed it, psychedelic swirls around the date and venue, their faces camouflaged beautifully within the design. I place it on the breakfast bar. It’ll look fabulous in a frame.

‘We did that, too.’

The fridge looks less cluttered. I feel a strange sense of calm.

Still taking up space, though, is the flyer for Ross Robson’s gig. I take it down, read the date; Jack’s day in lieu. How different that day – that night – should have been. Would I have appreciated Ross’s sense of humour, or would I have been on the other side of the fence? Somehow, it doesn’t feel right to discard it. I put it back beside the estate agent’s card.

Something is missing.

The photo of Jack on his dad’s shoulders. I wonder if Freddie took it.

There’s no size 13 trainer or stray stripy sock lying around anywhere, either; no parka for me to melt into. It’s like the flat has been disinfected of Jack. There are, however, voices coming from the communal garden. Giles, and he’s laughing at Ingrid. Or rather with Ingrid. The gentle lilt of her accent is musical. I walk into the bedroom and notice the window propped open on its hinge, a chill filtering in. On impulse, I close it tight. As the silence greets me, I open the wardrobe and pull one of Jack’s sweatshirts off a hanger, wrapping it around my shoulders. A musty smell welcomes me, the remains of aftershave rubbed into the wool from what was once warm, warm skin.

‘There you are,’ I smile.

All of his clothes are right where he’d left them.

Beth was wrong. This isn’t warped. This is where I’m meant to be.

I think I can finally sleep in the bed tonight.

31

Surrounded by squeaky new shoes destined to be scuffed by the end of September, I shuffle through the corridor to meet my new form class. I’ve been assigned a Year Nine group. God. Fucking. Help. Me. Before I became a teacher, anything I associated with Year Nine bore the fond glow of yesteryear – my first snog at Lindsey Jones’ fourteenth birthday party; class detention for being rude (or witty, as we interpreted it) to the substitute maths teacher; playing Dulcie in The Boyfriend. Now, Year Nine is a snake pit.

But I’ve got this.

They’re thirteen going on fourteen. I’ve got almost two lifetimes on them.

I perch on the desk. Echoes gradually get louder from beyond the open door. I check my phone is on silent and see two messages.

Break a leg today! Show ’em what you’re made of. Love you. Mum x

Even if I’d gone into accountancy, she’d think it worthy of applause.