A waitress had led the way to a small balcony, hazardous and not well lit. I could sense the sea, that subtle cold breeze, echoes of chatter from the sand. I hadn’t realised we were above sea level as the waitress started to descend, reminding us to watch our step. Obeying, I’d clutched the banister – a little rickety I recall – concentrating on my feet as the steep stairs went down, down, down. And then I looked up. Candlelit tables sat upon the sand, each cocooned in their own glow, scattered small fires creating a magical haze. Boats in the distance glittered on the water and the stars danced above us in the clear, black sky. I felt as though I’d entered a beautiful, inviting new world. The warm air embraced me as we sat at our table, water tickling my feet as my toes had sunk deeper into the soft sand.

‘It doesn’t get more romantic than this, does it?’ I had gasped.

Jack had leant across the table and squeezed my hand.

‘And I didn’t even have to try,’ he’d chuckled.

I held his gaze for a second longer than should have been comfortable, and yet, it was.

The last thing to pack is Jack’s suit – the one he wore the night we met. I’m pretty sure he never wore it again after that. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t let him take that empty seat at the theatre? What if Dan Finnigan’s girlfriend had stayed in Japan a little longer? What if I’d dragged our Kit along? I wouldn’t be folding up a dead man’s clothes, packing for a holiday with no destination, would I? I throw the trousers in without folding them; squash the jacket on top. Then I flop my body over the suitcase and zip, zip, zip; then I grab it by the handles and with a burst of sudden strength, I hurl it off the bed, across the carpet. It knocks against the Ikea drawers, making a dint in the wood, but I don’t care.

A Sainsbury’s carrier bag peeks out from under the bed, so I shake it open. I throw in Jack’s deodorant stick and his bottles of aftershave – some in their original box, some missing the cap – and an opened tin of hair wax, not that I remember him using it. I open his bedside table drawer and empty the contents into the carrier bag, too. Old papers, brown envelopes, his passport, three wire cables, God knows what for. I tie the handles in a knot. I’m on a roll now.

Several carrier bags join the two packed suitcases in the hallway. Guilt bubbles inside me, getting rid of all this stuff. Jack’s stuff. From Jack’s flat. I place my hands against my forehead to release the pressure building up and close my eyes.