Bang … Banging … One, two, three … I hear a shuffle.

The door.

Knock, knock, knock.

I ruffle my hair, slap on a smile, open.

‘Chloe! Hey!’

It’s Giles, from the second floor. He spots the suitcases.

‘Going away?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Quite the opposite, actually.’

‘Oh, good.’ Giles rubs his hands together, hunches his slender shoulders. A hint of autumn chill hangs in the air and he seems to be enjoying it. ‘Because Ingrid and I would love to invite you up for dinner. At a time that’s convenient for you, of course.’

From beneath his neat spectacles he’s confident with eye contact, and he talks animatedly with his hands. I imagine he does a lot of presentations in work, pretends to live for the weekend but, in truth, loves his nine-to-five. His faint eyebrows stretch high as he waits for my response. How could I let him down? I don’t think I could bear to see his happy face drop.

‘That’d be boss,’ I say. ‘Just say when.’

Giles gives a tiny, enthusiastic air punch.

‘Wonderful, wonderful, Chloe. We’re away this weekend, so how about next Saturday at seven?’

‘Next Saturday at seven.’

‘And please don’t bring anything except yourself. We’ve got it covered.’

‘Pasta?’ I ask, grinning; perhaps confusing poor Giles.

‘In abundance! Oh – sorry, do you have any dietary requirements?’

‘Not fussy at all.’

Giles and Ingrid must already know that, having seen the pizza boxes piling up in the bins out front, the microwave meal containers and the random shit. I went through a phase of eating avocados, potato waffles and pickled onions, sometimes with a knife and fork but mainly with my fingers. I can’t even remember if it tasted good.

‘Thank you, Giles,’ I say. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

He repeats his air punch and skips away backwards. And I want to mean it; want to look forward to it. I’m touched by his kindness. Let’s face it, I’ve been nothing more than a slob in mourning for months, and they’re officially welcoming me into their home.

I put the kettle on. I’m going to watch Netflix, start something new. I text Trish with a few options for dates to meet. I think about the wardrobe in the bedroom, sitting empty. Then I message Si.

Evening hun. I’m envisioning you rocking in a dark corner, sweating over creased costumes. But fear not. I’ve found a solution and enough space to hang every last sequin. Now go to sleep. Night, night.

The kettle boils.

The man sat in the shopping trolley looks at me, unimpressed.

‘You’re nothing,’ I say. ‘Maybe this was all nothing.’

Yet, if it was nothing, why can’t I take the picture down and put it with the rest of Jack’s things?

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