She sounded bewildered, close to tears. He himself felt unbalanced and strange, at a loss for words. For a moment he just stood there, fighting the urge to turn away and take his drink somewhere he could be alone. It felt like he had been avoiding her all day.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, putting the matches down.

She rose as if to leave, but he stopped her, not wanting things between them to be left like this.

‘Wait,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘It was a nice thought, Corinne. And I’m sorry you won’t be here to finish it with me.’

‘Maybe Beth will help you …’

But her voice trailed off. They both knew, somehow, the sculpture would be left unfinished until the day arrived for Mark to rouse himself and take it down.

‘I’ll send you a picture once it’s done,’ he said halfheartedly.

She nodded, and then sat down cautiously on the edge of the sofa. He noticed she was wearing the Radiohead T-shirt he had given her, and this made him feel strange. His old T-shirt worn as a nightie. Glancing down at her bare knees, they seemed vulnerable and tentative. The way her eyes widened, seemed to dart about the room, it was as if her coltish beauty had morphed into a startled deer, all bony joints and nervous glances.

The curtains were drawn against the night; the harsh glare from the angle-poise lamp illuminating the matchstick sculpture was the only light in the room. He wanted to sit down but was wary of her physical proximity, in the end, choosing a chair a few feet back from the table.

‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out,’ he said, sipping from his vodka, feeling the burn of it at the back of his throat. ‘Will you be all right going home?’

She shrugged but seemed unsure, and he felt a brief stab of worry at what awaited her: Valentina’s flakiness and grief, the gaping hole of her absent sister, her dead father. That sound came to him again – the awful gurgling in Guy’s throat – and he leaned forward, head bowed, his forearms resting on his knees, the glass of vodka cradled in his hands.

‘We thought that having you here with us might act as a welcome distraction,’ he said. ‘I know what it’s like to lose someone. I thought that it would be comforting for you to be within a family environment. But I wonder now if it just made you feel more unsettled.’

She pulled the hem of her T-shirt down over her knees as if aware of them being exposed to his gaze.

‘You think I skipped school because Guy died?’

‘Is that so implausible?’

Her brow furrowed as if confused, but he sensed that she understood him and was just buying time to think.

‘How about you?’ she asked, and he sat up straighter.

‘Me?’