As I watch the light, I remember waking up in the flat the first morning after I moved in, lying in bed for a bit before I rose. Boxes and bags were still piled in the alcove while I waited for the wardrobe I had on order – the only furniture that was in one piece was the bed I was lying on. I lay there and stared at the ceiling and bathed in the novelty of that moment, my first morning in my own space, only partially owned but the mortgage all my responsibility, every mug or hand towel chosen by me. Even when I got those choices wrong, they would be all mine.

I never quite lost my pleasure in that, even when, as I turned thirty, everyone kept telling me that as a single woman I must be a bit lonely, a bit needy. I couldn’t explain to them that there were times when I opened the little balcony doors on a Sunday morning and let the weak sun bathe the room, and I would have my own small cafetiere of coffee and one of those part-baked croissants I had just made myself, with raspberry jam, and I would sit cross-legged and look out over the plain communal gardens and listen to the birdsong and feel, calmly and clearly, that this, this being alone with my thoughts and my breakfast, was surely one of the most romantic things a person could do.

I stare at that small and blurry square of light and think of the person behind it, a young man or a young woman, almost certainly alone, and I know, without going into the flat, that Matty isn’t there. Someone else bought the flat, not that long ago perhaps: a young person who saved up for their first place, worrying perhaps about what they have taken on, what will happen if they lose their job, or perhaps it is someone who has recently divorced, hoping to make a new start. Whoever it is, I wish him or her sound sleep, happiness with their life. Every time they open a newspaper or turn on the television or talk to family or friends, they will be told that what they have isn’t enough and they should want more: a smarter place to live, a partner, a family. Every signal they get from the world around them will tell them to aspire to bigger and better. I wish them the strength to enjoy what they have. I wish them nothing more dramatic or glamorous than contentment.

*

I could go to the hospital during the daytime, I suppose, but I’ve no interest in seeing Matty at work, where he is at his best, his most charming and admired. I know what he’s like there, his public self. I want to know what he is up to in his private life.

*