I sloshed a large measure into a glass and drank it in one go, wincing at the burn as it went down. Then I poured another and took the bottle and glass through to the living room.

Pictures were scrolling across my mind’s eye in a way I couldn’t seem to control.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to block them out. I wished Anya was here.

Looking down, I realized my glass was empty again.

I poured myself another drink.

And then I rooted in a drawer for a cab company card that we’d never used before and rang the number.

I didn’t want to be alone tonight.

ELLIOTT

The cab driver tried to start a conversation but I was burrowing into a bittersweet place of self-pity, and so, after a few grunted replies from me, he gave up and we drove in silence along the coastal road.

Peering out to my left, I could just make out the lights of a large ship puncturing the deep blackness. Such a lonely sight. The sheer weight of open space pressed in on me so I turned away, focusing instead on the yellow car freshener in the shape of a winking emoji that swayed from the driver’s mirror. It made me feel a bit sick and I suddenly became aware of how much I’d had to drink.

Self-doubt began to crowd in. Would they mind me just turning up? Would Anya be embarrassed that I was … not drunk, but not completely sober?

But the thought of going back to the empty house was even worse. I was, reasonably, confident that the worst that would happen would be ‘What are you like?’ from Anya and friendly hospitality from her parents.

The Rylands’ house was up a narrow road that cut into the cliff and wound round to their property, which offered a stunning view of the bay from large windows. In the summer that room was flooded with golden light and I thought now about the times the four of us had gathered there around the table, drinking good wine and laughing, some of Patrick’s beloved jazz noodling and tinkling away in the background.

I remembered last Christmas and a pleasant warm feeling spread through me. Carols from King’s Choir in the background against the comforting, hypnotic crackle of the open fire. The air sweet with pine resin and the orange-spiced candle flickering on the hearth. White stars winking tastefully from the tree. No garish, coloured fairy lights in that room. No tinsel there. I thought about the Christmas me and Mum shared a Fray Bentos pie on Christmas Day because we hadn’t had enough money for a chicken or a turkey roast.

A different world.

‘I said, that would be sixteen pounds eighty, mate?’