Eventually, I consulted my doctor. She spoke about counseling or antidepressants, or sleeping pills as a last resort. Given my lack of enthusiasm for these options, she suggested focusing on something pragmatic. Insomnia could be your body’s way of rousing you to get on with a task. An activity you had previously been blind to, or neglectful of, in your waking hours.

I cleared my desk of French–English dictionaries, soup bowls, and coffee mugs. What I had to do, the shadow thing that had been waiting its turn, was write. I thought of returning to the course in the crypt but sleep deprivation made me a snail needful of my shell; the idea of heading into the city’s bustle was about as appealing as a sprinkling of salt.

Instead, when the night withdrew into its quietest hours, I put on my lamp. I sat down in front of my computer. I didn’t feel drawn to exploring the cyborg sex worker with her mechanical cat. I needed to write about something that burns in me like phosphorus. Someone I can’t extinguish from my mind.

Who else could I ever write about?

I have almost made a story of what happened. Most of what I remember is here, though the memories are continuously shifting. I have my theories about Sabine but that’s all they are; she’s no longer my Sabine any more than she is yours. As I gaze at a streak of crimson in the slate sky, for a moment I don’t know whether it is dawn or dusk. But no matter.

When the thickest part of the night comes around again, I’ll sit on the blue silk throw that covers the sofa. After lighting five white tealight candles, I’ll smoke a cigarette. Playing some of our favorite tracks, I’ll drink tequila toasts. To what can never be resolved: to endings, to Sabine. I will open the heart-shaped box.

And then, when I am ready, I will write the final sentence.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to:

Matthew Francis for sage advice throughout.

Evan James for open generosity and valued judgment.

Howard Lester and Melanie Newman for insightful feedback; Rachel Mendel who got it from the start; and Heather Dyer and Suzanne Ushie, whom I’m lucky to have in my corner.

Greg Keen for trenchant critique, time and again.

And to my father, Glen Ladner, the storyteller I was so lucky to have as a child.

Also, thanks to Cathryn Summerhayes, my extra-mile agent at Curtis Brown. Ravi Mirchandani for his intuition and vision. Charlotte Greig for her all-round editorial wisdom. Emma Bravo, Grace Harrison, Chloë May, and Roshani Moorjani at Picador for their generous enthusiasm for the book.

In the U.S., special thanks to Molly Gendell, my talented editor at Mariner Books. And to the great team who worked on the book, especially Maureen Cole, Ryan Shepherd, Dale Rohrbaugh, Mumtaz Mustafa, Yeon Kim, Angela Boutin, and Lucy Albanese.