Talking of sleep, I’m about to head back home when I pass a bed shop on the high street. It’s the window display that catches my eye; pride of place is one of those gorgeous French beds you just want to sink into, with plumped-up pillows and crisp white linens. Staring at it, I think about my own bed. It’s the one I shared with my ex-husband. We bought it when we first moved in together, a big wrought-iron thing that cost a fortune from an antiques shop and weighed an absolute ton. David loved it, but it was never really my style. Plus the mattress must be at least ten years old.

That said, it came with a lifetime guarantee. Being practical about it, there’s nothing wrong with it. I turn away from the window. But psychologically and emotionally, everything is wrong with it. Pushing the door, I walk inside. Harry isn’t the only one who needs a new bed.

Derek, the salesperson – or ‘sleep consultant’, as he introduces himself – quickly swoops upon me and I spend the next half an hour choosing a bed frame and trying out mattresses.

‘Have you thought about a Tempur-Pedic?’ he’s asking me now, eyebrows raised, as – in true Goldilocks style – I discount the orthopaedic ones for being too hard, the double-pocket sprung ones for being too soft, and the Vispring for being too expensive. ‘They’re very popular. How about a test drive?’

A few moments later I’m flat on my back again, wriggling around under his watchful gaze as I try to simulate sleeping. It’s actually the most bizarre thing buying a mattress: trying to re-create a very private act in a public showroom, while other shoppers mill about, rolling around on mattresses next to me. Earlier, I even spotted a couple spooning.

‘Are you a side-sleeper?’ Derek stands watching me, clipboard in hand, ticking off boxes.

‘Hmm, sometimes.’

‘Or do you like to sleep on your back?’

‘No, my stomach,’ I muffle, rolling over.

‘And your partner?’

Face down, I feel suddenly uncomfortable – and it’s not the mattress. The last few months have been spent rebuilding my life, getting used to being on my own, and now it suddenly hits home again.

‘Is he or she a front-sleeper too?’

‘Actually he tends to sleep at the foot of the bed,’ I reply, swallowing down the lump in my throat and thinking about Harry, which makes me smile.

There’s a pause, and I sense Derek is confused by an answer that is not in a box he can tick.

‘Right, well, if you want to see how you feel, I’ll be back in a few moments.’

I turn my head sideways to see him attend to a young couple, their arms wrapped lovingly around each other: much less confusing. I’m sure they tick all the boxes.

I lie still. In truth, this one’s really quite comfortable. Closing my eyes, I spread my arms and legs out, starfishwide, imagining that I’m asleep and Harry’s snoring next to me on his new sheepskin rug. Wait a minute. Someone is snoring next to me.