‘Can’t you just ring him up and find out?’

‘What?’

‘In a subtle way.’

‘Pru, he doesn’t even like me!’

‘Of course he does.’

He didn’t. Not only did Greg find her threatening, he thought her pretentious. ‘That silly name “Azra”—she’s Linda, for God’s sake! And all that self-invented bohemian I’m-such-a-free-spirit-compared-to-you-lot stuff, and that phoney voice. Never trust a person who’s lost their regional accent. And she hates men.’

Greg had been jealous, of course. The way I laughed with Azra on the phone, the endless talking. ‘Nattering’, he called it. What on earth do you find to natter about for so long? He wouldn’t call it nattering if she were a man.

Azra was right. I knew I should let Greg go. My mother was in my thoughts that morning, my dream still curdling my brain. She’d suffered years of dementia before she died. Was something loosening in my own brain? It is often triggered by trauma, or some sort of shock, and I was still feeling the effects of what had happened. More so, as the months went by.

I thought I’d feel better by now. ‘Get over it and move on,’ said Azra. Linda. Azra. Whatever she called herself. She was my friend, my ally in the wilderness. She seemed to cope all right, but I couldn’t.

Because I wanted a man. I was so hungry I could scream. The warmth of a man in my bed, scaring away the demons. His arms around me, the smell of him. The weight of him between my legs.

Who could I cling to if there was a third world war? Or a pandemic, killing millions? Was I to die alone, abuzz with bluebottles?

The next day I saw my dog, Sidney. He was tied up outside Waitrose.

‘Sidney!’

My heart leaped and I stumbled towards him, my bags bumping against my legs. My darling dog, he’d been waiting for me all this time. Months. Almost a year. That’s how faithful dogs are. How had he survived? Who had been looking after him? There were several other dogs tied up but only one Border collie. Only one Sidney.

‘It’s me!’ I shouted, tears springing to my eyes.

He remained sitting there, panting in the heat, his tongue hanging out.

Of course it wasn’t my dog. Slimmer, younger. I veered away, my eyes stinging, and made my way to the car.

Mad or what? I sat in the car, quite undone. Of course he was dead, my faithful friend. Nobody had loved me quite like he did. His head had rested on my lap and Joni Mitchell had sung him out of this world.

Doors slammed, cars came and went. I sat there, overcome with grief. For my dog, for my marriage. For Greg’s tenderness, the way he warmed up the car on frosty mornings before I drove to school, the way he cleaned my specs. He was a terrific dancer—he could jive, for God’s sake. Most English men danced like publishers. We’d had a good life together and I thought he loved me.