In the silence as Giles and Ingrid wait for me to elaborate, I remember the message request I received from Justin, still unread. The thought of opening it fills me with the fear that he will mention that night and make me relive what we did. But who am I kidding? I don’t need a message to remind me. I torture myself with the memory daily.

‘What’s considered “too soon”?’ I ask.

‘Don’t think like that, Chloe,’ Ingrid says. ‘We’re going to start trying for a baby again next month. Is that too soon? I don’t know. But it doesn’t concern anybody other than Giles and me. I would guess that the only person who cares about that kiss being “too soon” is you.’

‘Because nobody in Jack’s life gives a crap about me?’

‘Is that true?’

‘I was only with him for five months. They didn’t know me.’

‘Look, did kissing this guy hurt anybody?’

I frown, shake my head.

‘You see? So long as you’re not hurting anybody, do whatever you need to do to feel better. Kiss a guy. So what? Kiss fifty guys! There’s no rules, no laws. Just get by. You’re doing great.’

‘Oh, I’m not. I hurt me best friend – I was so oblivious to the shit going on in her life. And I’ve hurt me mum. And me work colleague. ’Cause I’ve been selfish, or childish, or—’

‘Grieving?’ Giles suggests. ‘Sounds like the person you’re hurting most is yourself.’

Ingrid nods, standing to pick up the cheeseboard and take it into the kitchen.

‘And don’t you think you’ve been hurt enough?’ she says over her shoulder, raising her voice slightly as she heads into the kitchen. ‘I went out shopping and bought a new dress yesterday because the alternative was to stay in bed and cry. And you know, I bought a lipstick, too. Something I never do. I just saw it and liked the colour and thought, yes, I’ll buy this. When I turned the lipstick upside down, its shade was called “Angel”. I’m not into things like that – hidden messages – but in that moment, I felt warmth. Silly, perhaps. But it’s how I felt. And it was good. Good must come from bad, Chloe. It must. Now give yourself a break. And Giles, give her some more wine.’

I’m not sure this is the best idea, but I hold the stem of my wine glass as Giles tops me up. The candlelight around the room is dancing furiously. Giles takes out his phone and after a few taps, the electronic jazz – which had built up to quite a crescendo – stops abruptly.

‘Time for a bit of nineties trance?’ Giles asks. ‘Or Motown? Meatloaf?’

‘Erm … Motown over Meatloaf, please. No offence to Meatloaf, like.’

‘He’d take over, wouldn’t he?’

‘And probably overstay his welcome,’ I laugh, as does Giles.