Ruby-May’s bedroom is opposite. Amy stands in the doorway. The room isn’t quite dark: the curtains are open slightly and a street light shines through. She can see the curve of Ruby-May’s new bed. Her youngest daughter was delighted that she didn’t have to sleep in a cot any more and she was now officially a big girl. Amy resists the urge to draw the curtains fully closed, but she can’t help going in and sitting at the end of the bed. It’s so low down, her knees are almost level with her chin. She picks up Ruby-May’s doll, Pearl, and sets it on her lap. Its hard, plastic hands poke into her ribs. On the shelf opposite is Ruby-May’s Beatrix Potter collection; it was Amy’s, when she was little. Lined up in front of the books is a set of Beanie Boos, with large eyes that glitter in the muted light. There’s a thin bottle of gin tucked behind The Tale of Peter Rabbit, but she resists that urge too. She listens for her daughter’s breathing, as she does every night, and then stretches her hand across the Peppa Pig duvet cover.

Ruby-May slept tucked in a tight curl, like a fern frond before it unrolls.

She touches the spot where Ruby-May’s toes would have been.

She can’t imagine anything more soulless than a child’s empty bed at night.

Matt used to make her leave their daughter’s room, but he’s given up. On her or on himself, she’s not sure. Sometimes she still spends the night here, but every trace of Ruby-May’s smell has gone. She glances at her watch and tells herself that she needs to make an effort. We’re going out, for the first time in over a year. She forces herself to get up, to put the doll down, to hold back her tears. But instead of going to her husband, she slides Peter Rabbit and The Tale of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle forward and, with one finger, hooks out the bottle. It’s a cheap one from Aldi and, over the artificial juniper, she can smell the sharpness of neat alcohol. She takes a sip and then another, and feels the warmth bloom across the back of her throat: a line, like a burn, running down her chest. One more and then she replaces the bottle and smooths the pillow. Her skin is so dry, her knuckles catch on the cotton.

In one month, it’ll be a year. A year since their youngest daughter died. Ruby-May, the brightest jewel, her gorgeous girl. She’d always wanted Ruby-May to have her surname and not her husband’s – Ruby-May Flowers sounds so much more romantic than Ruby Jenkins. She can’t even bring herself to imagine the anniversary. It falls on the day before what would have been Ruby-May’s fourth birthday.