‘I will. Your flat has the better view, too. So I hear.’

‘It was the deal-breaker. We needed something extra special, Layla and me.’

I nod, and desperately want to reach out, squeeze his hand.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘shame I won’t have a private tutor across the hall.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you—’

‘I meant, for Layla. Obviously.’

‘Obviously!’

‘Look, I have to dash,’ Ollie says and taps the NHS badge hanging on a blue cord around his neck. ‘I’m on my way to work. Night shift.’

‘Oh, rubbish.’

‘Nah. It’s fine. And anyway, I’m one proud dad. Always counting my blessings.’

Ollie Birch goes away as quickly as he showed up. I look for the shadow hanging over him, try to spot the hunch in his shoulders, the weight he must carry. But I don’t see anything: just a man jogging down the stairs, on his way to work. A dad feeling proud of his little girl.

And I’m proud, too. Of myself. I did good. As a teacher. I actually did good, didn’t I?

Cold air from the vacant flat tickles my neck.

It will be warmer inside Ollie and Layla’s place. Lived in.

How I’d love a place to call my own, to paint with my colours.

Outside, I bid Lorraine farewell, tap my satchel and tell her that I’ll keep her card, it’s safe in there. She knows I won’t call. As I watch her go, the stick of the umbrella leading her way, my own phone vibrates. Somebody is calling me.

‘Chloe!’ It’s Trish. She’s so in control of her words, so rich with authority as she speaks, that I listen to her as if it were a recorded message. ‘Accept my apologies for not contacting you sooner. It’s been a difficult patch. Can you bring Jack’s things over tomorrow? I know it’s short notice but I’m sure you’re as eager to get rid of them as I am to see them. Yes, dear?’

All I can manage to say is ‘Yeah.’

‘And let’s get that contract signed. Cheerio.’

When I get back to the flat, I remove Jack’s magnets from the fridge. For all I know, they might hold meaning to Trish and John. Maybe they went to Pisa together. I take each one down and wrap them collectively in kitchen foil. Then I message Beth, asking if I can borrow her car tomorrow. I’ll get Neil’s spare key from Giles and Ingrid in the morning.

The fridge looks bare: an empty white space.

Or a blank canvas.

‘I’m not ready,’ I say, my breathing shallow. ‘I’m not … I’m not ready.’

40

The Carmichael house is a short drive on from a quaint town in rural Berkshire.