‘Doubt it. I’m far too adorable.’ Oh, how true this is. ‘I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?’ Jack booms, announcing this question to the whole of Bangkok, his arms outstretched like a preacher. I take the opportunity to cuddle into him, sliding my arms around his back as he wraps me up completely. We squeeze each other tight. It’s a done deal.

Jack and I are going to move in together. This isn’t a pair of kids making an immature decision, swept up in the magic of youthful lust. We’re in our mid – well, late – thirties. We know what we want.

‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he says, not for the first time.

‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael.’

We meander back to the hotel, a mellow glow encasing us. We have absolutely nothing to do today. And there’s nothing better than doing nothing with Jack.

Nothing at all.

1

I’m rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear the front door slam.

‘In the shower!’ I yell, stating the obvious. Our flat is small and our shower is noisy. We don’t have a bath. I have to brush my teeth sitting on the loo to avoid feeling claustrophobic: yeah, that’s how small it is. But we have perks. Our fridge has an inbuilt ice machine and our kitchen door opens out onto the low-level shared patio, making ours the only flat in this redbrick Victorian house with direct garden access.

I don’t know where Jack’s been. He wasn’t home when I got in from school a couple of hours ago and he’d left his phone by the blue Marrakech dish where we keep our keys on the bookshelf in the hall. Wherever he’s been, I hope he’s brought me a Kinder Bueno. Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.

I apply conditioner and leave it to work its magic while shaving my legs and under my arms. It’s a lot of effort to look effortless when it’s hot, but needs must. The whole country is experiencing a heatwave and we’re heading out to sit in the basement of a pub in Greenwich. I can’t imagine there’ll be any air-conditioning and sweat will be dripping off the walls, so I need to wear next to nothing. We’re going to a comedy night – one of the comedians on the bill is a best mate of Jack’s. I’ve not met this mate before, but apparently he’s close to the bone: you either find him hilarious or utterly offensive.

Through the transparent shower enclosure, I see the bathroom door open just a little.

‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask, making the mistake of rubbing my eyes with shaving gel on my fingertips and squirming at the sting. ‘Jack?’

Jack doesn’t respond.