He’s aching to help me, but he can’t. Just like a yoga retreat in the Cotswolds can’t. With every tealight I’ve lit to make the living room look pretty, with every laugh I snort watching comedy panel shows at night on the telly, every lunch I share with Si, every cuppa I enjoy with Ingrid upstairs on a Sunday afternoon, I can’t escape this dark cloud pressing down on my shoulders. Kit’s wrong. Jack hasn’t gone.

‘Jack wanted us to live somewhere with a better view, you know,’ I tell him.

‘What’s wrong with the view?’

I go to the front window.

‘Ah,’ says Kit, as he sees the stone stairs, a hint of daylight above tarmac. ‘I see his point.’

‘Dinner’s ready,’ Gareth shouts. He’s been making risotto.

Kit throws me a ‘Zig-a-zig-ah’ and I quote a couple of lines from Dirty Dancing.

‘For fuck’s sake, Kit,’ Gareth screams.

‘He’s the worst when he’s hungry,’ Kit whispers.

‘I know. He makes Jack seem like an angel in comparison.’

‘CHRISTOPHER!’

‘Go! Go!’ I say.

‘Bye, sis!’

He hangs up. Their abrupt absence like somebody switching the main light on when you’ve just got into bed. I want risotto, too. But like Kit, like Gareth, I want it with my other half. Something I can’t do.

There is something I can do, though. One last thing.

I dial the number from the business card on the fridge.

‘Ashford Estates, Lorraine speaking,’ says a woman, a meaty melody to her voice.

‘Hiya, I’m looking for … erm …’

I haven’t got a clue. Luckily, Lorraine is better at this than me.

‘Rental or sales?’ she asks.

‘Rental.’

‘What area?’

‘This one, I think. It’s pretty hilly around here, I bet there are some nice views—’

‘Can you tell me the area? Postcode?’ Lorraine doesn’t show much emotion over the phone, which isn’t a bad thing. She could be asking for my National Insurance number or whether I’ve ever had a threesome. She keeps her judgement tucked away.

‘Oh God,’ I say, rubbing my forehead, as if trying to remove a dirty stain. ‘Your card’s been on our fridge for a while. I think me partner was in touch with you or one of your colleagues, maybe late May or early June this year? He must’ve dropped by, unless someone he knew gave him your card.’

‘Can’t you just ask him?’

I gasp. That word just – so simple. So throwaway.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘He’s not here.’

‘Maybe give us a call back when you’ve had a chance to chat to him? I’m here ’til six.’

What I’d give for that chance.