‘It’s such a coincidence,’ I say. ‘I went to the same resort with me mum and dad when I was little, so I recognised that beach straight away. Jack said you stayed in a villa, but we were on a package holiday. Imagine if we were there at the same time, though. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? It was 1989, I think. Can you remember when this was taken? Jack’s rubbish with dates, isn’t he?’

‘Chloe,’ John says, solemnly. ‘Jack’s dead.’

‘Y’what?’

I’m still looking at the photo. An uncontrollable rush of giggles empties from within me. I don’t know how to stop them spilling out of my mouth. Did he just say that Jack was dead? Dead? How is that even possible when his bolognese leftovers are still stuck to the plate by the sink?

‘I’m sorry to break the news,’ John says. ‘I presume you were his – erm – girlfriend?’

‘I am,’ I catch my breath. ‘I am his girlfriend. What’s going on? And why don’t you know who I am? Is this some sort of prank?’

‘It’d be a pretty cruel prank, my dear.’

I must turn around. I must stop looking at this fucking photograph.

But when I do, I don’t like what I see in John’s face. It’s broken. And this is nothing to do with age. Tears are streaming from beneath his specs, rolling down his cheeks. He dabs them with a white cotton handkerchief. I love how men from that generation always have a handkerchief.

‘Jack’s dead?’ I ask.

John nods.

‘I promise I didn’t mean to laugh just then.’

John nods again. He knows.

A breeze floats in through the open window above the sink. On a day as hot as today, it should be embraced, but I begin to shiver. John steps forward – perhaps to try and comfort me, or maybe he’s decided to close the window – but his foot knocks one of the two bar stools. A stack of textbooks lying haphazardly on the seat falls to the ground between us, loose papers fluttering down in slow motion like white birds. I go to pick them up, but hesitate to ensure my dignity is intact. John gets to the books first. He lays them on the breakfast bar, one by one, reading the titles quietly aloud.

‘Macbeth, Blood Brothers, An Inspector Calls …’

‘They’re mine,’ I tell him. ‘For work.’

‘You’re an actress?’

‘No, a teacher.’

‘Ah, English literature?’

‘Drama,’ I say, apologetically. I don’t know why. ‘I’m covering someone on mat leave.’

John puts the books into a neat pile and hands them over to me, but I don’t accept them, keeping my hands tight onto my towel. He returns them to the stool. Every second that passes feels like an hour, a year.

‘So, how did …’ I attempt, but I can’t find the words to continue.