I applied to the same college, acted and bluffed my way through the bizarre coincidence and in the end, Nina had no choice but to believe me. It wasn’t malicious, it was fear, a lack of confidence in myself that I could thrive or manage without Nina. Pathetic, I know.

Yet, it worked out in her favor anyhow. Nina didn’t make the type of friends she hoped she was going to. For a brief while, Nina was grateful that she had me there. Perhaps it even gave her an understanding of what life could be like for me. Until Camilla turned up, a few weeks into the new term.

So, although Deborah guessed what I’d done, she doesn’t know or appreciate things like that, does she?

“You’re a parasite!” she hisses (yes, really, her teeth clench, all the veins in her neck rise as the words escape).

That does hurt because it’s so bloody unjust.

“This is going to come back and haunt you, Marie. Everyone knows what happens when you play with fire.”

She gets up and walks away, leaving the curtain open behind her.

The woman in the bed next to me stares. I give her a not sure what all that was about smile, but she turns away from me.

People are so quick to judge, even when they only know one side of the story.

I still can’t concentrate on reading, and when I tire of endless random TV shows, I turn to the internet for solace. I Google widowers and length of time to remarry. As always, it takes an enormous amount of time to sift through the information, sources and facts, but an overall pattern presents itself: men tend to remarry quicker to replicate the happiness they’ve lost. On the whole, they have fewer support systems and tend to deal with their grief in more practical ways. One article sums it up as, women mourn; men replace.

Rather than interpret this as negative (some of the comments are scathing), it makes sense when I think of how beautifully Stuart has tended to Nina’s grave. He has way fewer friends than me, plus his family live far away. Rather than making me feel like a replacement, it brings out a protective surge of affection for Stuart. He has chosen (albeit relatively swiftly) to take a risk on a second chance at happiness. With me. It counts for something, surely?

When Stuart picks me up from hospital, I see evidence of spring in the form of daffodils pushing through the grass at the road edges, the sight of people without coats.

“So, I’ve arranged everything,” he says. “The register office is booked for eleven o’clock a week from Tuesday with a lunch afterward at a highly recommended nearby restaurant.”

“So soon?”

“Well, we both agreed there was no real benefit to hanging around, didn’t we?”

“I guess.”

Plus a weekday is safe. It affords people ample opportunity to give the sorry, I can’t get away from work excuse and the short notice means no one has much time to stop us.