I want to tell him how I hope that by seeing Tom in real life tonight I can finally put his ghost to rest in my head. I want to tell him how Matthew and I were both madly in love with the same man who will sing tonight on that big arena stage, but I can’t. I just can’t. Jack is right. It’s stuck in me and I can’t get the words out.

‘Are you sure you’re OK to go tonight when you’ve such a big journey ahead of you tomorrow evening?’ I ask him. ‘We could come up with some excuse to Harry and Sophie. They’d understand.’

Jack stands up and stretches out his arms high into the air. He looks good enough to eat with his tanned, muscular torso, the runway of dark hairs on his belly that lead down to the top of his blue jeans that always turns me on. I often look at him in awe and wonder of how someone could be blessed with such a caring nature, brains to burn and looks of a movie star. It’s no wonder his patients often fall in love with him (thank God Matthew didn’t!) and we sometimes have a laugh about how he has to professionally resist the clutches of women of all ages when they become attached to him. He is my husband and he is an absolute gift. I wish I felt good enough within myself to stand beside him.

‘You look hot, missis!’

Sophie greets me as usual with a compliment, just like she does every time we meet up for our monthly night out together. She hands me a cocktail and whoops with excitement as the crowds build up in the bar next to the arena where Blind Generation will take to the stage very soon. The sound system blares out their new album, which includes the number one song ‘Move Into Me’, and I try and distance myself from any connection to the voice that everyone sings along to.

‘It’s so good to be dressed up and get out of the house instead of skulking around in my jammies!’ I say to Sophie, admiring her efforts also. I opted for all black in a bid to blend into the background (not that I think I could be spotted amongst almost ten thousand fans) and I’ve scrunched up my hair into messy curls which actually make me feel a bit like my old self again.

‘You’re a bit like Sandra Dee,’ jokes Harry. ‘The nice-looking version at the end of the movie, I mean. Not the boring, frigid version.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ jokes Sophie. ‘I’m sure you’re delighted, Char! And since we’re all being so complimentary: Jack, you look delicious as always, you big ride.’