Giles and Ingrid cock their heads to the side and look past me into the hallway, at the obvious chaos of weekend DIY. I point at Ingrid and release some sort of weird grunt.

‘Ikea,’ I say.

‘That is Swedish,’ Ingrid reminds me.

Giles waves his hands. ‘No need to bother Jack – we just wanted to let you both know that we’re getting our bathroom refitted next week so it might be a bit noisy. The builders will need to go around the back of the house to check some plumbing so if you see any strangers in the garden, don’t be alarmed.’

He finds this really amusing. Maybe I would too, on another day, in a previous life. Giles looks so together; so clean; so innocent: I can’t imagine anything could get near him to break him. He’s probably got some sort of sensible insurance policy to protect himself from anything bad ever happening.

‘No probs,’ I say.

‘Anyway, we must have you both over for a cuppa some time,’ Giles says. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger?’

‘Or pasta?’ Ingrid says.

‘Or pasta,’ I repeat.

‘We bought a new hanging basket, by the way,’ Giles adds. ‘For the front of the house.’

‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all. Shame the weather’s taken a turn for the worse, eh?’

‘Has it?’ I look upwards to the thick, white sky.

‘Been chilly again, like spring for the past couple of days,’ Giles tuts.

‘He is so obsessed with the weather,’ Ingrid says.

‘Aren’t we all?’ I say, aware of my massive contradiction.

And fuck me. I’m still wearing Jack’s giant bloody parka.

I bid them goodbye, mimicking their pure politeness. When I close the door, I touch the blue stain on my lower lip. Ingrid’s natural blonde locks have also reminded me of my roots, all dark and mousey and threatening.

Why didn’t I tell them?

Because it didn’t seem appropriate. Like I’d be interfering.

I close the curtains to stop the outside glare reflecting on the telly, and I have a long, long flick through everything Netflix has to offer. There’s still two more drawers to build, but I imagine Jack lying beside me. We watch a film about a high school misfit with the ability to move mountains, literally. We drift in and out of some sort of drunken sleep.

A message alert shakes me awake.

Dear Chloe, I hope you’re keeping well. I got your number from Jack’s phone. The funeral is taking place next Friday. Regards, Trish Carmichael.

I wonder if she’s read the exchanges between him and me over the past few months. As perverse as this might sound, I hope so. It’ll prove we weren’t ‘just shagging’, as she so bluntly put it.

7