But no, I’m overdramatizing—half isn’t accurate. Surely at least four fifths. And the rest isn’t available anyway: no one could ever have the whole of Jonathan, because he has forever mortgaged part of himself to broadcast journalism.

I could tell Carrie I’m keen to find out what’s happening with the volcano, which at least has the benefit of truth. Somewhere in Iceland a malevolent volcano is belching a vitriolic stream of fire, ash and lava into the jet stream, shaking the ground with malicious laughter at the havoc it is causing. Or maybe the volcano is the victim, cruelly assaulted from below by the magma . . . In any case, the resultant ash cloud has grounded all flights in and out of Northern Europe. It’s been the headline news item for the last seven days and my own private obsession, given that it genuinely is the reason I missed being both at my mother’s deathbed and funeral, regardless of whether Carrie and Pete choose to believe me. But if the television is still on when the topic switches to the other major headline—the oil rig explosion—Carrie’s eyes will fill up with all the things that she hasn’t yet found a way to say, and I won’t be able to bear their weight.

“I’ll leave the biggest for you then,” she says.

It occurs to me that she’s trying very hard. I am too, of course, but I hadn’t quite expected her to make such an effort, and I’m not sure if her reasons are the same. I have no idea what the landscape between us looks like from her point of view. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay then. Well, I’ll go and have a look round then and get settled in. Shout if there’s anything you want me to help with.”

“Okay.” She heads for the door, mug still in hand. “Wait,” I say reluctantly to her back. She turns inquiringly. “I don’t want the master. You take it. If you want to.”

She pauses for a moment as if about to ask something, but in the end all she says is, “Sure. I’ll take a look.” She doesn’t know what to do with me, either.

•   •   •

The keys.