Well, he’s made me feel awful. And perhaps that was his intention, because I tell him fine, fine, fine, I’ll go with him to see Mamma bloody Mia! And he breaks out into a bouncy routine – something which I expect is along the lines of what I’ll witness on stage tonight – and tells me he knew I wouldn’t let him down. Which is kind, if inaccurate. I’d had every intention of letting him down. I wanted to stay in tonight, terrified that tomorrow might be the day a member of the Carmichael family shows up and boots me out. You see, it’s been two weeks since the funeral. I’m floating through each day, waiting for something to happen; wanting nothing to happen. I just want to stay in the flat and imagine Jack’s just late home from work.

I arrive at the theatre ten minutes before showtime, still in my school clothes: a maxidress and baggy cardigan. I haven’t seen a West End show for years, something I used to get as an annual birthday treat, with a hotel deal and open-top bus tour of London. Now I live here, I’m already taking it for granted.

‘This is my fourth time,’ Si tells me, brimming with pride, as we bustle through the busy foyer, up the lavish staircase towards the dress circle. ‘Thank you, again.’

‘You’ve seen Mamma Mia! four times?’

‘It’s ALL about the second half,’ he says, giddy. ‘Well, the second half of the second half. But I won’t spoil it for you. Unless you’ve seen the film?’

‘No, haven’t seen either,’ I say, settling into my seat, miffed at how Si has completely undersold the majority of what I’m about to endure.

The overture kicks in, almost knocking me out with its powerful beat. It’s so dynamic, so alive that my eyes water. I get that old tingle from my youth, the smell of the greasepaint, and I’m not even on stage. I calm down once the acting begins: it’s upbeat and perky, and I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on. I just revel in the dark at not having to speak.

During the interval, Si buys himself an overpriced bag of Minstrels and asks if I fancy a wine. I decline and sip a plastic glass of free tap water from the end of the bar: my period hasn’t made an appearance yet. He bops over to me, loving every second of being here. I miss having that abundance of enthusiasm: I’m here merely to pass time, to continue breathing, to keep going.

‘What’s your favourite bit so far?’ he asks. ‘Mine had to be “Dancing Queen”. You?’

‘Same.’

‘So, did you ever see yourself up there, treading the boards?’

‘Didn’t we all?’

‘Not everybody, surely?’