Mark seemed oblivious to Beth’s dislike of him. Probably because he barely spoke to her. What interested him was Beth’s new husband, Harry. Harry was a solicitor, specializing in property law. As an estate agent and would-be property developer, Mark saw Harry as someone who could be of use. This is what he based all his friendships on: whether or not the person could be of use. As for me, I was his fragile flower, the person who made him feel useful, feel in control.

That evening he persuaded me to cook a roast. He knew I was a lousy cook at the best of times let alone when I was struggling with nausea but he said that as it was my friend – Beth – who was coming I should be the one to cook. ‘A roast chicken’s nice and simple, Lisa,’ he’d said, opening up the cookbook. ‘All you have to do is follow the instructions.’ And I did follow them, right to the letter, but it was still a disaster. The chicken was raw in the middle, the vegetables were overdone, the gravy stuck to the bottom of the pan. The thing is, I’d always associated roast dinners with my dad. He’d loved to cook them, delighting in the ritual of prepping the meat and the vegetables then gathering round the table to eat and chat. After he died my mum couldn’t face Sunday lunches so the tradition ended along with our happiness. As I grew up I avoided eating roast dinner altogether because of those memories, because of the happiness I’d known and lost.

I remember the look on Mark’s face as I sliced the chicken and a load of blood poured out on to the plate. He looked mortified. Beth and Harry looked awkward too but Harry tried to lighten the mood. He said it happened to him all the time when he cooked chicken. ‘They’re a bugger to get right,’ he laughed as he dialled in an Indian takeaway for us all. Beth nodded at me and mouthed, ‘Are you okay?’ I’d smiled brightly, rolled my eyes and said I wouldn’t be giving Nigella a run for her money any time soon. But inside I was screaming. I’ll never forget Mark’s words as we waved Beth and Harry off at the end of the evening. They have stayed with me ever since and each time I think of them they take on a new meaning. ‘Well, that was a bit embarrassing, wasn’t it?’ His breath reeked of beer and Chicken Madras. ‘I don’t know. You just haven’t figured out how to be a grown-up, have you, Lisa?’

Looking at the stove with its seemingly unfathomable parts, I tell myself that no matter how difficult this becomes, no matter what I have to face, I’m going to prove Mark wrong. I’m twenty-eight years old, not some silly child.

I stand up straight and try to imagine that I’m sensible, grown up, that I know what I’m doing, but then I’m hit with a smell so pungent it almost takes my breath away. Putting my hand to my mouth, I see that to the left of the stove is a small alcove. The foul smell seems to be coming from that direction. Holding my breath, I step inside it. There’s a tall wooden box in the middle of the space. As I approach I see there’s a hole in the top and an old rusted bucket to the side of it. It can’t be. But as I peer inside the hole my fears are confirmed. This is the toilet.