Except for me, it seemed less of a choice and more of a necessity. This wasn’t about me growing heirloom tomatoes, it was about trying to save my life. Which I know sounds dramatic to those who have never suffered the crushing despair of a broken heart, but that’s how it felt to me. I was drowning in London. I needed to escape. I wanted to run away from it all and disappear. But now, faced with the stark reality, it’s overwhelming. This doesn’t feel like an exciting new adventure; it feels scary and bewildering.

A mouse darts across the floor, making me jump, and I let out a scream. I quickly pull myself together. It’s late. I’m exhausted. I need to go to bed. Only it turns out my actual bed has been dismantled and lies propped against the wall in the hallway. Instead I make do with the sofa, which I find in the living room, and use my puffa coat as a duvet. It’s midwinter and there’s no central heating, so the house is freezing. Curling up wearily against the cushions, I lie alone in the darkness, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the house and the wind whistling in the chimney.

So this is it. My new life.

I feel anything but brave.

Then I remember something. Reaching for my handbag, I pull out the photograph of Josie and me and angle it to the shaft of moonlight coming in through the bare windows. I peer at her face, grinning out at me, and am instantly comforted. Suddenly I don’t feel so alone. And, placing the photograph on the empty mantelpiece, I curl back up on the sofa and, for the first time in months, fall straight asleep.

Stanley

On. Off. On. Off. On.

From the window in his attic bedroom, Stanley, kneeling at the end of his bed, peered through his telescope at the house in the distance. Far away on the other side of the graveyard, he watched as the lights flicked on and off in the distance.

Bottom window: On. Then off. Bottom window on the other side: On.

He still couldn’t tell his left from his right. Everyone else in his class could do it, but he could never remember. Some of the other children made fun of him, but Dad told him to ignore them. Dad said he was in the big school before he knew left and right, and that was miles older than he was now. The teacher said an easy way to remember was, ‘Right is your writing hand,’ but he used his other hand to write with, so it got him all mixed up.

It didn’t make sense, thought Stanley, as he continued peering through his new telescope, which was a present from Santa at Christmas. But lots of things didn’t make sense; that’s what made them so scary. Santa did not make sense. On Christmas Eve, Dad had said Santa was going to come into his bedroom when he was asleep and leave presents at the end of his bed, but he’d got frightened. He didn’t want a strange man coming into his bedroom when he was asleep, even if he was magic.