The sun was poised on the horizon—a shimmering red sphere. I tried to see it as beautiful, but all I could think of were flames and gases and unbearable, searing heat. The clouds weren’t white and fluffy anymore. They were long, jagged streaks, tinged with violet and pink. An epic sky, like a warning from God. It made me tremble to see it and I had to look away. Because I knew what was coming.

We stayed on that chair for what seemed like hours, swinging gently back and forth, chatting and giggling, as if nothing had changed. We stayed there till the night crept round us and goosebumps pricked our arms. We stayed till her mother drifted toward us like a wraith.

It was time for me to leave.

5

NOW

After supper, Ross and I sit on the sofa watching the telly, but I can’t focus on anything. My eyes keep straying to the box Mum and Dad brought over. Dad was right. They should have taken it straight to the tip.

It doesn’t sit well with me, not telling Ross about Alice. We shouldn’t have secrets from each other. I know there are things in his past he doesn’t like to talk about—the dark period after his mum died—but at least I know that happened. I have the bare bones of it. Whereas this pivotal event in my life—my best friend getting killed by a train, me being there when it happened—I should have told him by now.

When the adverts come on, Ross turns the volume down and shifts position so that he’s facing me.

“What do you think about having a housewarming party?” he says.

The suggestion throws me. I stare at the muted screen, trying to think of what to say. I’m not a great fan of parties. Standing around in a room full of strangers. Watching everyone else get drunk while I’m sipping yet another soft drink. Frankly, I’m amazed he’s even suggested it. What with one of the partners at the surgery being on long-term sick leave and a succession of unreliable locums, he’s been rushed off his feet and stressed out by work ever since we moved in. I didn’t think he’d have the time or energy to contemplate having a party.

“I thought it might be nice,” he says, and there’s such an eager expression on his face that for a few seconds I see the little boy he once was—the little boy who lost his mother. “I could invite my colleagues from the practice. And some of the old gang, of course.”