Careful not to blow out the candle prematurely, I creep away, baby steps. The flame dances delicately as I sit down. This is where I imagine Jack giving in. He’d bury his head into his large hands, ashamed at how stroppy he’d been all night. I’d say, it’s okay, don’t be daft. And he’d smile and he’d sway and he’d get bang into the spirit, deciding that after all, he did like this place. In fact, he loved it.

To the far left, I hear another chorus of Happy Birthday break out, harmonising in good tune. So I sing along, quietly.

‘… happy birthday, dear Ja-ack. Happy birthday to you.’

And I make a wish, and blow.

15

My mum and dad – to my relief – are in bed.

Earlier, my dad had had some wild idea about staying in a hotel around Park Lane, finding a last-minute deal. ‘When in Rome,’ he’d said. I’d said, please, sleep in the bed, I was more than happy to sleep on the sofa. I didn’t tell him I sleep on the sofa every night.

I’m tipsy and tired. Full from the feast.

But I’m not sad.

Wait. I’ll rephrase. I’m less sad.

Now, this could be the wine.

I take my boots off by the door and tiptoe along the hallway. My mum has tidied up, even folded the tea towels into neat squares beside the sink. There’s a lamp on beneath the mugs cupboard which has never worked since I moved in. My dad’s fixed it. The light creates a pool of calm and makes the kitchen seem more spacious. I smile at the man sat in the shopping trolley, a great centrepiece. The image is so sharp; it’s still incredible to me that it was taken – hungover – on Jack’s phone. I can see us there, feel the sticky heat, the grimy city dirt between my toes in my flip-flops.

I get a pint of water, lean against the sink and down it.

Hugging the empty glass to my chest, I look at the fridge opposite, vibrant and busy. All of the should-have-beens and to-dos: ready-made plans, stuck in a time warp. I step forward, remove the Antonella business card from beneath the flip-flop magnet, hold it between my thumb and forefinger.

‘We did it,’ I whisper.

And instead of throwing the card away, I slide it into my purse. A keepsake.

Unlike going to the theatre with Si and paying that bloody gas bill, tonight feels like an achievement. Jack was so vivid. It was tough, but God, given the shit hand of cards I’ve been dealt, I’m glad I was there over any other place in the world. I had a good time. I did. A good time.

So what else can I do?