Meena turned back to the fridge and rummaged about. ‘Well, I’m glad I brought these for Rohan. I thought he’d like to have a home-cooked dinner tonight after all that aeroplane food. And, if not, it’ll keep a day or two.’ She straightened up then put her hands on her hips and looked at me through narrowed eyes.

‘Now, Abigail. What are we going to do with you? I’m not happy with you here.’

‘I’m good,’ I said running my hand through my hair. ‘I was just about to get ready. Really.’ We stared at each other.

‘I’m not sure you should be here alone,’ Meena said, ‘but… hmm… Ronu will be back very soon.’ She pursed her lips as she wrestled between wanting to interfere and wanting to go to her bridge night. ‘I’d say come home with me but, as I said, we’re going out.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

‘Hmm. Well, you’ve got food in the fridge now. Are you going to be all right heating it up?’ I nodded. ‘Lay the table,’ she said. ‘Make it look nice. Put on something nice yourself. Ronu will appreciate that. And we’ll sort out the energy tomorrow. I need to look up a few things and get some sage for the smudging.’

I nodded and looked towards the hall and the front door, showing her out with my eyes. Finally, she took my cue and made her way back to the hallway.

‘He lands in fifteen minutes,’ she said at the door. ‘Then probably another two hours till he reaches home. Call me if there’s any…’ she widened her eyes, ‘problem. Okay, bye. Mwah.’

I closed the door behind her, shutting out the wind, the darkness and the rain, and turned to face the house once more.

Now it was just the two of us.

With the vodka bottle still in my hand, I blundered up the stairs towards the dead girl’s bedroom and paused at the door. Her things were still there, of course: her bed, her dresser, her wardrobe, the dry, cracked flip-flops she wore around Thailand that last, fatal summer. The old hangers, the child-sized clothes, the wardrobe, the dolls, the flowery curtains: all of it was hers. Grace had put them there to torture me. She’d known what she was doing.

Outside, the wind snarled around the house and a branch of the oak whipped the window, scratching at the glass as if it wanted to come in. I looked at the room, breathing in the smell of the wallpaper and the wardrobe; the smell the girl would have thought of as home. I threw myself onto the comfort of her bed and drew my knees up the foetal position as I rocked side to side, the pointlessness of my existence hurting more than any blow.