The first thing I did once I’d carried everything up to the flat was to go to a supermarket and buy a load of cleaning products and some cheap kitchenware so that I didn’t have to eat out. I had no intention of taking those things with me to my new house, so I just bought a fork, a knife, a spoon. One plate, one pan, one bowl. I felt a bit like Jack Reacher, as though I should keep my toothbrush in my pocket.

I was okay until I started to buy some food. Automatically I picked up a box of muesli and put it into my cart. It was as though something pinged in my brain and I couldn’t stop staring at it. People pushed past me and I moved to a quieter aisle. I realized I’d been eating that cereal for years and years. It was a muesli with all sorts of things in it, nuts, raisins, the lot, and though the packaging was impressive, I’d never liked it. It tasted dusty and too sweet. Yet I’d eaten it every weekday for years. Tom liked it and used to say there was no point in getting two different cereals, that they’d go stale. Whenever I suggested trying something else he’d go quiet and moody. It was crazy, really, how much his mood could affect me. Why had I put up with that? I went back to the cereal aisle and looked at the range on offer. Which should I buy? What did I actually like? My head started to hurt. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know what I liked. It hadn’t mattered what I liked.

Tom chose everything. And, to be fair, he did usually make the right decision. He had good taste—I knew that. It’s just that . . . well, sometimes you want to choose something yourself, don’t you? When I was living at home my mum decided everything. We either did things her way or we suffered; my sister and I learned that lesson pretty early on. And Fiona got away from it by emigrating when she was eighteen. As for me, I had a few years of freedom and then just when I was really enjoying my life, I met Tom.