‘So you’re still in a relationship? With a dead lad?’

I wince. She makes it sound so—

‘Sorry, babes. That was harsh.’

‘The fridge in the flat, Beth – it’s like a bloody to-do list. And I have to look at it every day, this massive reminder that me and Jack had started a real life together. And I need to finish off what we started.’

‘How can you possibly do that, Chlo?’

I shrug and allow my gaze to wander up the river.

‘That’s what I’ve got to figure out.’

We drink in a semi-comfortable silence for a while, nibbling snacks. A knot sits in my stomach and it’s nothing to do with the amount of salt I’ve consumed in the past hour. It’s Florrie. All-important Florrie. Helping Trish; checking on the caterers. God, if she’s so important, why didn’t Jack ever mention her?

Beth is on her phone, tapping away.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Fergus wanting to know when I’ll be home. It’s fine. Honest, babes.’

She doesn’t sound fine.

‘I’m still not pregnant,’ she says, and gulps her wine. ‘Clearly.’

‘Ah shit. And I guess I’m stopping you and him from—’

‘Nope. Got me period yesterday. Super early this month, for fuck’s sake.’

‘What a bitch.’

‘I know, right. Let’s get another bottle, babes. I’m halfway hammered, and you know how I hate doing things by halves.’

‘On one condition,’ I say, standing up too quickly and steadying myself on the table. ‘That you don’t mention me “not knowing” Jack, or the relationship being “too short”, or any of that bullshitty bollocks the world’s harping on about.’

‘So long as you don’t mention Fergus. Or me ovaries.’

Another bottle of wine later and we’re desperate to crash. We find a twin room above a different pub in the same village and Beth makes the most of it, running a hot bubble bath for herself, nipping downstairs for a cappuccino. Not wanting to prolong today any longer than necessary, I dive under the covers of one of the beds, not even attempting to remove my black clothes or put the telly on. I pretend to be asleep when I hear Beth pottering about, and somehow it works. I sleep.

11

As we drive back to London the next morning, we listen to Graham Norton on Radio Two. Beth doesn’t pry or poke me into talking much and I’m glad. My whole body aches from a pain I can’t pinpoint.

There’s a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the doorstep.

Wildflowers: beautiful; not your average online purchase. These were either bought in a specialist local shop or handpicked from some glorious field. A small card sits amongst the lilacs and yellows. To Chloe. It’s with love from Giles and Ingrid, the couple on the second floor. They know.

How do they know?