Then he decided to turn his phone off, go for a walk. See the old hood.

He let himself back into the house as it was getting dark, having stopped at Calvin’s for a smoke, unburden his head.

‘Here’s the thing I can’t get over mate,’ he’d said, as the bong burbled comfortingly. ‘If she hadn’t died, would I have cared? Nah. Would I have taken the time to look back in on myself, really push, like, rescue all my actual memories of her? Nah. I wouldn’t’ve. And that’s fucking shit, innit? All these amazing things happen to you and you just, fucking, edit them out. Know what I’m saying?’

Calvin knew. That was what was good about Calvin, he thought. Calvin always knew.

Inside the house, Gemma was operating at another frequency, the dog yapping and fussing round her ankles.

‘Jesus, fucking hell. Where have you been? Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been shitting myself. I thought – the spare room, your Insta post, you not answering – oh my God, babe, don’t do that to me.’

He felt planets away from her, breathing in different, slower oxygen. ‘Hey. Hey. Just been getting my head straight. Just needed a bit of space. It’s OK. Come here.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s blown up. It’s absolutely blown up. We had the Mail – the fucking Mail – plus about eight of the bigger blogs on the phone all within about two hours of you posting. You need to do a couple of quick interviews, I reckon; don’t worry, I’ve shrugged off most of the pond scum already. Then – look, I’ll just get us some Thai or something from downstairs. Unless you’ve eaten? It’ll be a fairly big night – the Guardian are keen for an exclusive, though, and they’re so totally on brand for you. I take it you’ve got some more pics you could give them?’

The words were swarming him. He blundered through to the kitchen, batting at the heat in there, heaved himself onto the bar stool and pulled her waist in to him.

‘Gemma. Gemma. Listen to me, babe. I ain’t giving no more interviews. That ain’t happening. I’ve said my piece, said everything I need to say in the ’gram. They’re not getting no more photos, no more nothing off me; they’re going to leave me to grieve in peace. That post wasn’t no publicity exercise. It was me paying tribute to someone who was a huge part of my life. That’s all, all right?’

She bit her lip and he felt a powerful urge to grab her, start mauling her, get her tits out, make some of what he was feeling physical. Right here, just up against the breakfast bar. But she was rebooting, considering a new approach, her mind seemingly eight times as fast as his.