I sit on the polished wood floor in the centre of the room, unravel my scarf, try to feel at home. My fingers dance, creating an invisible circle of trust, sensing the vibe. It’s clinical, this flat, but the potential is huge. For plants, plants and more plants, enjoying the sunlight from the long windows. How could Jack not love this place? I’d put some beanbags over in that small nook; a reading corner. The less I try to imagine Jack in this space, the more I see. A hanging rack for pots and pans; tall standing candles beside each window.

I think of Jack, banging his head. Wanting to chop wood.

Did we really want such different things?

Does that matter? Or, more accurately, would that have mattered?

‘Jack?’ I whisper, standing up.

With everything I do, no matter how big or small, I can sense a connection to Jack. Except in here. I don’t even feel like crying. Perhaps because this is beyond my means. Pure fantasy. I’m what the teacher in me would call a time-waster, viewing properties I can’t afford. So I wrap myself up with my scarf, bow my head and meander out of pretty much my dream apartment.

‘Miss Roscoe? Are you alright?’

I jump, dropping my satchel between flat three and flat four, startled out of my thoughts. It’s a man, maybe older than me by a few years, his hair floppy – rather retro – like the hero of a Touchstone movie. His stubble is fair, his smile kind. I don’t know him, but he definitely knows me. He’s bent down, retrieving my bag and the pens that have rolled onto the communal sea-blue carpet.

‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright,’ he laughs, unsure of himself.

‘It’s okay, I was a million miles away.’

‘One too many?’

‘Huh? Erm, no – not at all—’

‘Whoa, I was completely joking. And I wasn’t judging. Teachers are allowed to drink, I didn’t—’

‘It’s fine. I drink all the time. Just not this afternoon. Yet.’

‘Fair enough,’ he says, still holding onto my satchel. Like me, he’s wearing a denim jacket – although it’s smarter than mine, obviously more expensive, a grey hoodie sitting comfortably beneath it. I reach out to take what’s rightfully mine and get the impression he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. He mumbles a further apology and hands over the satchel, then the loose pens, one of them pink and fluffy, like a camp flamingo.

‘A gift,’ I say, defending my choice of stationery.

‘Again, not judging.’

I wonder if he works at the school. He called me Miss Roscoe. I haven’t been the most sociable member of staff; I’m not on first name terms with that many teachers … wait. Oh God. How could I be so stupid? He must be a parent.