Still, the image blared again: a figure on the roof of the university’s tallest building, on the wrong side of the safety barriers. The marks his palms had left behind on the railings from gripping so tight.

Joanna shook her head and reached for her phone, instinctively opening the WhatsApp group she had with her closest friends. She could write something and there would be a flood of compassion, reliable and lovely friends that they were. But then she’d feel guilty for attracting so much attention, and she’d start backtracking, saying oh it wasn’t really that bad, and surely they’d all had much more stressful days with their teething babies and hectic school runs. Somehow, she felt she’d used up her quota of sympathy during her breakup with Luke. Her friends had been heroes throughout those hideous few months, but now she shied away from mentioning other troubles, even from admitting that Luke still plagued her thoughts. She’d had her unwanted limelight.

Pushing aside the phone, she took another cold gulp of wine. There were several sensible things she could do for her mental state. Things she’d recommended to many of the students she’d counseled over the years. But meditation and mindfulness now seemed much less appealing than going to a pub and getting drunk among strangers.

Joanna left her glass on the bench and ran to fetch her purse.

—

She had called into the Last Junction a few times since moving to this part of Derby. It was a red-brick pub next to the station, usually full of people who were either waiting for trains or had just got off one, their suitcases parked next to their tables as they drank. Part of its appeal was that there was never anybody she knew. Although Derby was a city, it felt tiny sometimes. Joanna had been part of the same crowd, hanging out in the same places, since she was sixteen. And almost every memory from those two decades circled back to Luke.

But in this pub, as usual, she didn’t recognize a single person under the dim lighting. Even the barman wasn’t somebody she’d seen working in here before—he was younger than the other staff, though he had a face that could’ve put him anywhere between late twenties and early forties. Boyish dimples but crinkly eyes. Curly, soft-looking hair, but a tinge of silver in his blond stubble. He blinked as if she’d startled him, then studied her face as though there was something strange about it. There probably was. Smears of mascara always transferred themselves to her upper eyelids when she was stressed, like two extra brows. There would be sweat patches under her arms and her long skirt would be crushed from hours sitting in hot rooms chairing crisis meetings. She felt too tired to fix herself, though. Too tired even to drag a finger over her lids.