I pretend to be interested in the canapés displayed artfully in the glass cabinet, then order myself a glass of champagne; exactly what I’d wanted to do last time. As the golden effervescence glitters into my glass, I try to recall the flight back. Was Jack as terrified of flying then? Memory fails me. I’d been trying to meditate through a hangover conjured by the devil himself and injected straight into my bloodstream. At one point, I’d had to snooze on the floor of the departure lounge with my head on Jack’s hand luggage. Jeez, we’d hit it hard on that final night. I’d thought we were in denial about going home, and making every moment count. But maybe Jack needed to block out his impending fear. Or maybe it was a bit of both.

The cold bubbles kiss my lips, sneak up my nose.

‘Are you trying to find faults in me?’ I hear Jack ask.

I almost spit out the gulp I’ve just taken as I see him beside me, sat up on the high stool.

‘It’s clever,’ he says. ‘Makes sense to get over me.’

I want to enjoy my champagne. God knows it cost enough.

‘I’m not looking for faults,’ I mutter. ‘I just remembered what an arsehole you were to me last time we were at this airport.’

And great. I’m talking to myself in an airport. What if I start doing this on the plane? Freaking passengers out looking like a terrorist, whispering some sort of mantra before I blow everyone up?

‘Being afraid of flying is fear of the lack of control,’ Jack says.

‘Go away,’ I say, trying not to move my lips.

‘And also a sign of a vivid imagination. Which I have. Oops! Had.’

Well, yours truly also has a vivid bloody imagination and thanks to that, I’m failing at enjoying a quiet drink in my cocoon of me-time. I’m haunted and distracted, alone but not on my own. I’m lonely, but I’m with Jack. He’s dead, but so alive in my mind, and I’m so fucking confused I can’t see straight.

‘Same again?’ the barman asks.

I look to my champagne flute, dry and empty.

‘I better not,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’