It’s hard to remember those early days. We were all in a state of shock. The enormity of it didn’t sink in for a while. In fact it still hasn’t sunk in. I remember feeling safe in our love-nest—we had each other, after all—and then I’d become overwhelmed with grief: for the world, for those people who were lonely and frightened and dying. For what might lie ahead.

Down in the street life carried on, eerily normal. The Turkish and Bangladeshi shops seemed as busy as usual, though a lot of customers seemed to be bulk-buying toilet rolls. Nobody seemed too concerned, not then. But when I borrowed Azra’s bike and cycled into the centre of London I found a deserted city—echoing canyons of emptiness, post-apocalyptic. Shuttered shops, dark restaurants and dead theatres. Now there were none of the usual distractions, no traffic or people, the buildings had stepped forward and taken over ownership of the streets. It was strangely moving and utterly desolating. I don’t need to tell you all this.

At first I was thankful to be with Azra. After all, we were already in a sort of lockdown together. Our plans were on hold but we were in no hurry. Our phones were silent and we had no work. No financial worries either, as I’d just sold my house for an eye-watering amount of money. I could save my sorrow for other people, and my fury for the government’s ineptitude and lack of compassion.

As the days passed, however, I was aware of growing tensions between us. I blamed it on the virus. Everything was out of kilter and we were in the vulnerable age group. Azra was mercurial at the best of times and now she had every reason to be jittery. Still, I was surprised by her growing obsession with infection rates, and vitamin supplements, and sanitising everything we touched or bought or practically breathed upon. ‘Of course you should wash the bag of rice!’ she told me irritably. I’d never taken her for a hypochondriac, but then the longest we’d previously been together were weekends in Dorset, when she’d come to stay. I remembered once, when Greg had friends round, how she dropped a dish of ratatouille and scraped it off the kitchen floor and back into the pot. ‘None of them’ll notice,’ she’d whispered. That was my Azra, I thought. Blithe and careless, afraid of nothing—certainly not a bit of dirt.

But these were strange times, as everybody kept repeating. Nobody felt quite themselves. Under our feet the tectonic plates had shifted and we were living in a parallel universe, with new rules and, far off, the jungle-beat of fear. No wonder our behaviour had altered.

That’s what I told myself. That must be the reason.