All the way home on the bus though, I feel warm; it feels like a sort of internal glow. I pull out my phone and call Marianne. It goes to voicemail and I wonder now whether she has a landline I should have got the number for; whether she is one of those people who never really checks their mobile.

I leave her a rushed voicemail instead.

‘Marianne … I met Alastair. He was her boyfriend, you were right, back when they were both at Middlesex University. He said … it all fell apart when he asked to meet her parents. Her death was such a shock to him too, but he was … he was so kind about it. Marianne, he was lovely. I’m on my way home now, but you can call me back whenever you want, whenever you get this message.’

My ear is hot as I tuck my phone into my trouser pocket, my breath light and high in my chest. You can call me back whenever you want. I would never have said that three weeks ago. And that, surely, can only be a good thing. Is it possible that something good might come of all this?

The ride home goes by in no time. Before I know it, I’m back at my flat. Home, safe and sound. It is still early, barely one o’clock, still hours before I have to collect Charlie. I nip out to the corner shop on Elm Park to pick up bread and milk, then settle myself on the sofa, flick through the TV guide and put on a film. A rom-com, something totally safe. I think how long it’s been since I relaxed like this. Let my mind wander, just zoned out. I can feel my eyelids drooping, I yawn; I think for a little while I doze.

I’m so much calmer than normal when I go to collect Charlie and, back home, the whole afternoon and evening seems to flow. No fights, no squabbles; Charlie seems quite happy. I make us beans on toast and we sit down together in the kitchen to eat it. The heating is on and the flat feels cosy, our little private bubble of home. I think of the stack of papers in the living room. Later this evening, I’ll go back to them, add on what Alastair too has shared. For now, though, I look across at my son as he licks beans off his knife.

‘I love you,’ I tell him.

He grins. ‘Love you too.’

We spend the rest of the evening playing snakes and ladders. Charlie wins three times, me two. Then it’s bath, pyjamas, clean teeth. He’s yawning now, leaning against me. I switch on his glow lamp as he clambers into bed. When I kiss his forehead, his skin is warm, clean. It’s these shimmering moments that I treasure, try to keep.