‘The Handbag Massacre!’ she’d snorted, tears rolling down her cheeks as she told me to stop before she peed herself. Naomi always could make me see the funny side of things, as if her laughter gave me permission to laugh too; and now, with the benefit of hindsight, I suppose it was quite hilarious. Mortifying, but hilarious.

Blurry-eyed, I reach for my reading glasses:

What are you doing for Easter?

Eating too much chocolate – why?

Any chance I can still take you
up on that invitation to visit?

Yes, of course!
Would love to see you!

Great! Ellie will be so happy;
she says she wants to see a cow.

I think I can arrange that

Thanks Liv, you’re a superstar.
Can’t wait to see you and
have a proper catch-up.

Me too. Can’t wait!

It’s still dark outside and, propping myself up on my pillows, I turn on my bedside lamp, pleased by this unexpected turn of events. I’ve really missed Naomi and our daily conversations in the staffroom; not just the big stuff, but the small, inconsequential, random stuff that makes up a life and a friendship. It will be great having her and Ellie to stay.

‘Our first guests. What do you think of that?’ I ask Harry, who’s sprawled across the bottom of the bed, like an old fur coat. He doesn’t stir. I know he’s ignoring me. Harry has selective hearing. He can hear the jingle of his lead or the rustle of a biscuit wrapper from the bottom of the garden, but when he’s doing something he shouldn’t – like digging holes in my flower beds or sneaking onto my bed in the middle of the night – he suddenly goes completely deaf and pretends he can’t hear me.

Which, now I think about it, reminds me a lot of my ex.

‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ I tut.

But I am getting excited, and my mind begins running through all the things we can do when they visit . . . until I suddenly remember I am living in a building site. Not to mention that the guest bedroom, which I haven’t even started on, is currently piled high with boxes of junk; or the avocado horror that is my bathroom; or the fact that I no longer have a kitchen, but a sort of makeshift campsite in the corner of my living room, with a camping stove and kettle, along with my fridge-freezer.

Feeling a slight panic, I look at the calendar on my phone. Since moving to Yorkshire I’ve completely lost track of the days. Unlike in my old life, where I was ruled by the calendar. Back then life was so busy, if it wasn’t ‘in the diary’, it wasn’t happening. It’s a wonder I didn’t have ‘Husband Walks Out’ scribbled there too.

I scroll through the dates. Oh, shit. Easter is less than two weeks away.