Hiya Justin! Where in the world are you right now? Look, I could give you a shit load of excuses as to why I didn’t read your messages and reply sooner, but I’d be lying. I saw your name, thought about our kiss and felt like I’d cheated on Jack. I’m sorry. What you’ve done with these pictures is nothing short of gorgeous. I’m so touched, overwhelmed at your kindness. I apologise for taking so long to let you know. In short, I’m okay. I’ve got brilliant people around me. And yes, I do (try to do!) whatever makes me happy. Sometimes that might be watching The Sound of Music with a Meat Feast from Dominos. Don’t judge!! I hope you’re doing the same. And Canada, well, I’ve always wanted to go. It’s actually second on my list after Japan. Love and hugs to you. Chloe x.

Now, in my new bedroom, I look at the man sat in the shopping trolley resting on the carpet against an upcycled chest of drawers, and wonder where to hang him. A horn honks – my taxi is outside. I’ve volunteered to sort the cake – the all-important will-it-be-blue-will-it-be-pink sponge covered in thick white buttercream – and I’ve got to pick it up en route. This is a mammoth responsibility. There’s no way I’m getting on the tube with it, not on a Saturday afternoon. Knowing my luck, it’ll end up on the stairs of an escalator and a load of Spanish tourists will know the gender of the baby before its bloody parents. Currently, the only people who know are the sonographer, the admin who typed the letter and the baker in Sydenham who I hand-delivered the sealed letter to. I don’t know why, but I suddenly think about Nat, the woman from Huddersfield who Justin snapped in the trolley. Will she and her new husband be trying for a baby perhaps? Is that the next part of her story?

I run down the two flights of stairs, slam the front door behind me.

The story of Jack and me has ended. Gone but not forgotten, as they say.

My story, however, will – and must – continue.

*

I arrive outside the redbrick Victorian house as a visitor, no longer a tenant. It’s only been a few hours but already, I feel disconnected from the place, like it could be days, weeks, even months since I lived here. In a material sense, yeah, all my things are no longer in the basement. Not a single joss stick remains. If I’ve forgotten my purse or my red lippy, I can’t nip downstairs to get it any more. The wind feels like it’s blowing gently in a different direction.