Carl must’ve moved it. Yes, that’s most likely it. He and that man came in earlier. I remember he looked as though he had a tape measure. Of course, he was probably measuring to see if his own furniture would fit, and they simply forgot to move the table back.

I heave a sigh of relief and pull myself together. What is wrong with me?

Outside the front door, I catch a couple who are walking by in the hope they live in one of the houses in this estate.

‘Hi,’ I call. ‘How long has the power been off, do you know?’

‘You got a power cut, love?’ The man stops at the kerb and gives me a quizzical look.

‘Yes, haven’t you?’

‘Nope. All good at number thirty-two. Not heard anyone on the estate having any issues today. I’d call your provider, love. See what they’ve been up to.’

‘Yes, will do,’ I say, putting a hand up in thanks.

It’s times like this when I wish Nick was here because he’d have immediately known what to do. Maybe it’s a simple fuse-box issue – I’ll try that first. I go back inside, duck down under the stairs and begin pulling shoes out the way, reminding me how I did this only a few days ago, and access the box by pulling the lid down. Every single switch is pointed up. Is that right? If it is, then this box clearly isn’t the problem. I flick one of them down, just to check. Immediately I hear the droning hum of the fridge.

‘Excellent! Well, done, girl.’ I proceed to position all the switches down, and then check the downstairs lights and appliances. Everything now seems to be working.

For a moment, I feel chuffed with myself. But then concern washes over me. Why were all of the switches up? I remember Nick saying that the lightbulb blowing in the bathroom had tripped them once before, but I’m sure he said that it isolates that one; it doesn’t make all the switches flick off. My mind whirs.

And because of the power issue, I’d forgotten to check the whole house.

I quietly manoeuvre out from under the stairs, take my handbag and keys and walk back outside. While locked inside my car, I make a call. Thankfully, he answers.

‘Nick,’ I say, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. ‘I don’t suppose you could pop over, could you?’

‘Why? What’s wrong? Are the boys okay?’

‘Yes, yes – boys are fine. I’m about to pick them up from school. It’s not them. It’s me.’

‘Oh, I see.’ His voice becomes flat. He doesn’t owe me anything, I know. And I get the feeling if it were the boys who needed him, that would be different. But the moment I mention it’s me, I can sense the deflation.