I was laughing at the radio, and Jonny was – he was—

Dying.

I never ate peanut butter again; wouldn’t have it in the flat.

Just before the implosion. A freezing afternoon during the half-term holiday when I experienced a moment of clear, clean bliss: a moment so pure I clung to it later, like a drowning woman to a lifebelt.

It had been a fine day on a Pembrokeshire beach, sky as huge and bright and blue as larkspur, and Ali, Zach and Jonny were standing on one headland of the cove, looking out at the lighthouse. The kids had been arguing about the remnants of some Dairy Milk, but peaceably enough, and I’d walked round to the other tiny headland. I stood, watching them across the golden expanse of beach, and I felt the clarity of sudden, darting joy.

This was my family, the little group basking in the autumn sun: these were my people – and I loved them so much it hurt.

Daft.

It was dangerous to relax into love, I knew that absolutely again now: I should have remembered. I’d known it long before this though: I had been taught it at my mother’s knee, after all. Don’t rely on love.

As I’d grown older, I’d seen the joy drain from her with my father’s every sip of whiskey; I’d watched her wither as eventually he killed himself with it.

And so I also recognised it was entirely my fault Jonny was knocked off his bike on the flyover. He wasn’t even meant to be working: he’d taken a rare nightshift, filling in for someone he hardly knew; making extra cash so I could fulfil my dream. It was my fault because I loved him too much.

On the way home – exhausted, no doubt, impossibly weary – did he lose concentration?

We’d never know. Some driver clipped his back wheel, a driver who hadn’t stopped; still out there somewhere, unburdened – while Jonny’s colleagues fought to save him. By the time I reached him, it was too late.

What I did know was it was my fault the world changed overnight, because I’d begun to relax into my dream, that day in Wales; believed peace was attainable.

And then on the way back to our holiday let, I’d ruined it by fantasising about that beautiful manor house we’d seen above the beach, and Jonny took it personally, got cross and stomped into the cottage, tripping over the metal boot-scraper that neither of us had known the use for when we arrived. And his stumble only exacerbated his irritation, as if it was something – this great house where they had doubtless employed servants, if not now, then back then – that he had failed to deliver for me. As if, somehow, that made him lesser.

People like me should know our place; not dare to dream.

‘Ruby?’

I almost jumped. I’d forgotten all about this confident stranger beside me, in this expensive car.

‘Sorry!’ I was appalled. ‘I’m sorry. Was I talking out loud?’