Days pass. Then weeks, and we develop a rhythm, Carrie and I. Fragile, to be sure; and nascent, but nonetheless a rhythm. I pick Carrie up from the station, we might or might not go to the leisure club, we have dinner together (Carrie cooks; I wash up) then watch some telly or occasionally we meet some combination of Ben, Ali, Fiona, Piotr and Jamie in the pub. But abruptly that fledgling pattern is broken. Carrie rings, as she always does, and instead of discussing her day, instead of waiting for me to offer a lift, she tells me she’s staying up in Edinburgh for the night, doing something with some of the cast. I’ll be on my own in the Manse tonight.

I place my phone carefully down on the dining room table after she’s disconnected, and look around me thoughtfully. I’ve taken to doing any necessary admin in here, partly on account of the practicality of the big table on which to spread out all my papers, and partly because of the view. This room looks across the rear garden, toward the lawn that acts as a welcome mat to the wood that I am growing to love, but more crucially it looks away from the valley floor and the spectacular mountains that rear beyond it, their very impassivity somehow drawing the eye and refusing to release it.

She sounded different, Carrie. It wasn’t a conversation in which I felt questions were welcomed—probably there was someone with her. I wonder if there’s one cast member in particular that she’s more keen to spend an evening with. There’s a hint of . . . something. I don’t know what. A softness round her mouth when she’s thinking and doesn’t realize I can see her. Perhaps someone has indeed lit a furnace in her soul . . . Perhaps these nights in Edinburgh will become more frequent, and I’ll be spending evenings alone more often than not. It’s an unsettling thought. The Manse is different with Carrie in it. It keeps time better, it hides its other faces, the bathroom door stays closed and the boiler flame doesn’t snuff out. It behaves like the mere pile of bricks it ought to be.

God, I will have to cook.

I head to the fridge and eye up the contents despairingly. It’s by no means bare, but everything in it requires effort: chopping or prepping or frying or grilling or possibly all of those; Carrie would know. But the fridge door has been open too long; it begins a low accusatory beeping. I close it and consider my options.

Fuck it. I can buy a microwave meal at the village shop.