Shit. I spill red wine onto the carpet. I’ll never understand why anyone buys cream carpets, although I can imagine it looked lovely when John and Trish had this one fitted.

‘I nearly died once, you know,’ I say – to Jack, to nobody – tightening the screw. ‘I was only little, about three or four. Me dad was making tea and toast before bedtime. He likes it burnt, black, except I have a theory that he can’t make it any other way. God, I wish you’d met him, had the chance to go for a pint with him. Anyway. As me dad was buttering the toast, me grandad came rushing in, panic stricken, and he said, “Chloe’s choking”. Me dad dropped the butter knife and ran upstairs, burst into me room. He found me red-faced, eyes watering and struggling to breathe. He dangled me upside down by me feet and shook me, whacking me back – not the most elegant or correct manoeuvre. Whatever he did, though, it worked. And do you know what it was? A Polly Pocket. I’d taken the toy to bed and God knows why, I’d put one of those teeny, tiny plastic dolls into me mouth. Me grandad’s warning saved me life that night … Except me grandad died before I was born.’

I said that last part pretty loud – you know, in case the ghost of Jack needed me to speak up a little in order to appear. If my dad saw my grandad, why can’t I see Jack? Come on. Appear. APPEAR!

The doorbell is ringing.

Did I order anything from Amazon? Did Jack?

Stepping over the unscrewed parts of drawers, I grab the toothpaste from the bathroom and squirt a blob into my mouth. Blue stains of red wine sit on my bottom lip.

The doorbell rings again.

Please, please, please don’t be Trish and John.

‘Hello!’ a couple sing in chorus as I open the door.

God, they look so freshly scrubbed. Their cheeks are rosy. It’s the couple who live in the second-floor flat. They’ve been out walking, and they’re wearing matching hiking boots and designer raincoats. They must have driven out to Kent this morning at the crack of dawn. They make me feel revolting. I don’t even know what time it is.

‘How are you settling in?’ the fella, Giles, asks.

‘Good,’ I say. Well, what else can I say? ‘Manic.’

‘I bet,’ Ingrid says. She’s Norwegian and her skin is so flawless I can’t imagine she’s ever ingested anything processed. Ever. ‘Is Jack home?’

They don’t know.

Okay, I should’ve known they didn’t know by the tone of their arrival, asking how I’m settling in, but it’s only just dawned on me. They don’t know. And it’s going to be up to me to tell them.

‘Building a chest of drawers,’ I lie.