Pictures of Tom and his fiancée Ana are everywhere I look so I throw my phone to the side and don’t bother charging it when I hear the battery dying. Ana is as beautiful as her status as a supermodel suggests. Tall, willowy, blonde and with cheekbones like razors, she’s almost too beautiful to be true. And she’s young. I’d guess about twenty-three to Tom’s, what … thirty-five? Not that bad, I guess, considering the world he lives in. It’s hardly a stereotypical rock-star age difference.

I think of Jack, making his way to his hotel in Montreal, his head mangled with all sorts of theories as to why I’ve chosen to keep this all from him for so long. Does he really think I’m still in contact with Tom? Does he think I’d planned to go there last night in some sick, sneaky way to feel close to him again? Why the hell did I go to the concert? What’s happening to me? I can’t understand why I’d even contemplate it when all of my life, well, most of it, is going quite smoothly – apart from the big issue of being unemployed, of course.

I hate how I do this to myself. Why can’t I ever feel complete with my lot? Why am I always the one wanting what I don’t have? It’s like a disease and it’s eating me up. Maybe I do need to talk to Tom. Seeing him on stage just made me worse, but if I spoke to him? Oh my God, why am I still thinking of him?

I need to clear my head. I just don’t know how.

I get up at seven, having barely slept a wink, and I stand under the shower for as long as I can, trying to focus on how I can sort my life out. I call Jack as I sit on the edge of our bed twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel, but he doesn’t answer, then I realize he is five hours behind and he’s either still travelling or sleeping.

‘Jack, it’s me,’ I tell his voicemail. ‘I wanted to say … well, I don’t know what I wanted to say. I suppose I just needed to hear your voice. I miss you.’