I haven’t been reading Jack’s post. He still gets letters, junk mainly, and I’ve been collecting them in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag to give to Trish. Another month has passed without him, making it almost five months since he died; the same length of time we were together. My head can’t quite understand that equation. It certainly doesn’t feel equal. But anyway, a brochure arrived for Jack from an East End comedy venue. No envelope; his name and address were printed on the back page. During my uni years I went to the Edinburgh Fringe every summer, to perform in terrible student productions that played to an audience average of six. I’d spend my spare time watching stand-up. Once, in the Pleasance Dome, Michael McIntyre handed me a flyer for his gig. Goes to show – they’ve all got to start somewhere. I’d flicked through Jack’s brochure. It’s always nice to recognise a face from years ago to see who’s succeeded. Or at least who’s still trying. On the third page, a familiar photo caught my attention. Part fed up, part zany, one eyebrow raised high; Ross Robson. The same photo from the flyer on the fridge, but now rows of four-star reviews were printed across his curly hair. Jack and I were supposed to see his pre-Edinburgh show, testing out jokes before the big festival. Now he’s performing with the critics’ support.

So that’s what I’m doing tonight, after the school musical.

I watch from the wings, arguably the best seat in the house. I get to see everything without sitting behind the fourth wall: I’m involved. The pockets of my black jeans are filled with Kirby grips. My black polo-neck is lined with safety pins. I have a needle threaded ready for me to jump into action if a leotard splits.

Some things, however, I can’t fix.

The bulb on the spotlight bust during the dress rehearsal. The school budget doesn’t stretch far enough to fix it – not on such short notice anyway. The painted Manhattan backdrop is slipping lower and lower as the performance progresses. The cast are doing a (moderately) good job of squatting behind it as they cross sides, except for Jonah Matthews, who is now bobbing his head up and down comically, although perfectly in time, to Si playing the famous Kander and Ebb vamp on the piano. Widening my eyes, I telepathically tell him to make himself scarce.

‘Miss!’ I hear a loud hiss beside me.

I look down to see a kid from Year Eight frantically flapping a loose piece of material hanging off her shoulder. I mime a silent ‘shush’, then wink. I knew the threaded needle would come in handy.

‘You’re the best, Miss,’ she whispers. Right now, I’ll take that.