“No.” He held up a hand, one trouser leg on, one trouser leg off, as I threw back the duvet and moved to sit up. “You need to stay in bed. Sheila told you not to come in today, remember?”

“Will, I’m fine. I’d rather be at work than rattling around in here all day with nothing to do.”

“You’re not fine.” He pulled up his trousers, fastened them then lowered himself onto the bed and put a hand on my leg. “You were sleep-talking again last night. Actually, sleep-whimpering would be more accurate. Do you want me to stay?” His brow creased with concern. “It’s not too late for me to send some cover work in. I’m sure it would be fine.”

“I’m not ill.”

“I know you’re not, but …” He squeezed my thigh firmly but his indecision was written all over his face. His school is due an OFSTED inspection before half-term and there’s a hell of a lot he needs to do in order to prepare for it.

I slid my hand over his. “Honestly, Will. I’m fine. If I really have to stay home, I’ve got an enormous pile of books I haven’t had time to read, and there’s always that sci-fi box set you lent me.”

“Battlestar Galactica.” His face lit up. “You’ll love it, Emma. I know you will.”

“Hmmm.” I wrinkled my nose and he laughed.

“Honestly, you don’t even have to be a sci-fi fan to enjoy it. The number of people I’ve recommended it to who’ve—”

“Become totally addicted to it. I know, I know.” I gave him a playful shove. “You don’t have to give me the hard sell. I’ll give it a go.”

“Okay.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the nose. “Just take it easy today, okay?”

Ten minutes later, the front door clicked shut, his ancient Ford Fiesta spluttered to life and he reversed down the drive, pulling out onto the main road. He raised a hand in goodbye as I stood at the window and watched him drive away.

That was three hours ago. Since then, I’ve cleaned the bathroom, hoovered the living room, watered all the plants and folded the washing and put it away. I attempted to watch Battlestar Galactica but only managed one and a half episodes before I gave up and retreated to my bedroom with a book. It’s a turgid affair. It’s won all sorts of awards and plaudits but the language is dense, the plot barely discernible and the main character—

My phone vibrates on the bedside table, tapping against the base of my glass of water.

It’s been two days since I sent Al a message on Facebook about Daisy still being alive. Maybe she’s read it.