I landed on one photo in particular, a candid shot of me, laughing so hard you could see tears rolling down my cheeks. I remembered the day so clearly, just the two of us hanging out on Primrose Hill years before, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what he’d said to make me laugh, but whatever it was, I was in hysterics. We used to laugh a lot more back then. Just like we used to hold hands and kiss in the street, just like he would give me piggyback rides to the bus stop when my heels were hurting. If I tried to jump on his back now, at least one of us was likely to break a hip.

But it was normal for long-term relationships to struggle sometimes, I reasoned. You had ups and you had downs; sometimes the downs lasted a little bit longer than the ups, but it wasn’t as though things were actually bad between us, not the way they were for other people. You couldn’t even call it a rough patch really, more of a quiet patch. A nothing-much-to-say-to-each-other patch.

I was never any good when I wasn’t working; I was someone who needed to keep busy and all this extra time to myself was dangerous. It was starting to feel as though the walls were closing in on me and I needed to give them a short, sharp shove. Five days in London would be just the trick and I knew that even if he wasn’t happy about it, Stew would understand. Eventually. After popping two ibuprofen, I finished all the little tasks I took care of every night. Nana Beryl would be proud, I thought, as I wiped down the kitchen tops and hung the dishcloth over the mixer tap to dry out overnight.

When I finally made my way upstairs, I saw the bathroom light was still on. Leaving lights on, forgetting to turn the TV off, not quite turning a tap all the way, these were all Stew’s specialties, and evidence, according to his father, that he simply wouldn’t be able to cope without me. Wearily, I tugged the cord and stepped softly down the hallway, avoiding the two creaking floorboards, to find him tucked up in our bed, duvet clutched under his chin, eyes closed.

‘Stew?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I need to talk to you about this job.’

The room was pitch black, his white noise machine hissing away beneath his bedside table.

‘In the morning, Fran,’ Stew yawned, rolling over onto his side, presenting me with his back. ‘I’m shattered.’

I stared at the lump under the covers. He knew I wanted to talk. He knew this was important to me.

‘OK, but I have to leave in the morning,’ I said. ‘So there won’t be a lot of time.’