When we were together – such a brief handful of times, really! – I would sometimes ask you questions about your life. Innocent-sounding ones, like do you have stairs in your house? You would go quiet, give me a look as if I was laying a trap. And maybe I was. You were very good at not telling me things, but even with that I picked a few bits up. I knew you had a tree in your garden with red leaves – you had even sent me a picture once, romantically comparing it to my hair. I knew you had paving stones on your drive, because once you’d had to ring a man to come and clean them. They were mossy, and your wife was afraid of slipping, which made me think of her as weak, fragile. The online article I found about your death had mentioned you lived in Guildford (not where you’d told me, of course), on Carnation Drive. I was fairly confident that if I went there, I would be able to find your house.

It was getting too cold to be out, and my body ached. Swollen ankles, swollen belly, a feeling that the air couldn’t fill my lungs. Ivy Cottage was in darkness, and I wondered where Nora was, why she hadn’t mentioned she was going out. Obscurely, I felt a stab of resentment, at being left out here alone. Ridiculous. As I approached my own cottage, I saw to my surprise that the windows were lit up, the blinds drawn. Had I done that before I left? Was Nick home? It was far too early for that, only three o’clock, though the light was already weakening, dying. But the alarm box glowed red, not on ‘stay’ mode, so he couldn’t be back. Puzzled, I carefully keyed in the code – no squawking of a wrong key today – and went inside. The house was warm, welcoming, all the lights on, soft music playing. Had I set this before I went out? I went over my movements in my head: putting my coat on, finding my scarf, setting the alarm. I couldn’t remember. Hurriedly, I turned it off, wanting the music gone.

‘Suzi. Suzi.’ In the silence of the kitchen, my own name echoed. Tinny, electronic, impossible to tell if it was a man or woman’s voice, a machine or a person. Oh God. I hated this thing.

Of course, it wasn’t so simple, going to Guildford. I didn’t have a car and I had to explain each trip out I made. Again, I used the baby as an excuse. I wanted to go and look at cots, bouncy seats, that kind of thing. I pretended I was going to London, since he’d think it strange to go to a town so far away.