In her craziest moments, when she woke at three and felt like the only person in the world, like a shipwrecked sailor on a deserted island, she would imagine talking to the woman, if she even existed. What she might say to her. How she might warn her off.

Suzi

Suzi

The next morning, when Nick went to work, I did what I’d promised you I never would. I called your mobile.

It was a number I only had for emergencies, if I couldn’t find you when we’d arranged to meet. It must never ring or sound with a text or call when she might be around, that had been made very clear to me. And yet you had gone – was I supposed to just accept it? The fact that you had, in all likelihood, ghosted me? With trembling hands, I went to the corner of the kitchen that sometimes had reception, hit the number – saved for no particular reason under Lucy P – before I could think too much about the ramifications, and heard an electronic voice. The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Had you changed it, in case I tried this very thing?

What could I do now? Throwing the phone down on the counter in frustration, I went into my ‘studio’ – what Nick had called it when he set it up for me. I hadn’t said I wanted one, but then I hadn’t said I wanted to move to the country or get a dog or give up work, so I suppose it didn’t matter. It had been built during the frenzy of alterations that saw the new windows and doors go in, the underfloor heating, the old cellar dug out for wine and Nick’s ‘music room’. ‘Try the chair.’ Nick had rocked it for me back then, showing me the studio. ‘It’s won design awards. I know you think office chairs are hideous.’