Without meaning too, she’s made me feel even worse about Clare, always being the one who had to meet our parents’ expectations, get the best exam results, be perfect, achieve all the things they never did.

I look at Marilyn. And for the first time since Clare died, I can’t hold back. The tears flow until I’m gasping for air.

Marilyn sits next to me on the bed and holds me, I don’t know for how long.

As the tears stop, I realise I haven’t dressed. I suddenly feel vulnerable. I release Marilyn, reach down for my Calvins and my trousers. They’ve got hooked onto one of Marilyn’s shirts, poking out from under the bed. When I retrieve it, I notice some kind of buzzing coming from further back.

‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

‘Under your bed?’

‘Radiator pipes?’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m used to it.’ She sees the look I’m giving her. ‘What?’

Marilyn’s processing power is awesome when it comes to calculating the implicit withdrawal rates in the social security system, identifying which marginal seats are winnable in a general election, or evaluating which newspaper serves which important electoral demographic best. And she knows, better than any witchfinder, which MPs are the true believers and which the apostates. But when it comes to her home, she doesn’t give a fuck.

‘That’s not a radiator.’ I get down on my knees and pull out knickers, newspapers, unwashed plates with unidentifiable food hardened on. With trepidation I stick my hand all the way under, because I recognise that sound. Bingo. I fish out an oblong piece of black plastic. I wave it triumphantly.

‘My pager!’

Eww. It’s sticky. I wish I could wash it – and my hands – immediately. But the pager is buzzing angrily, its tiny black-and-white screen glowing as it displays numbers that have been chasing me. The latest is an outer London 181 telephone number, followed by the digits ‘999.’

It must have slipped out of my pocket the last time I was here and I somehow kicked it under the bed when I was getting dressed in a hurry. It was pissing with rain; I’d spent longer with Marilyn than I had intended and was late for my meeting with Tony Cannon at The Groucho.

Marilyn peers over my shoulder and sees the ‘999’ code. She knows what it means: call urgently.

‘Someone’s angry husband after you?’

‘Ha, ha,’ I reply.

‘Sorry. Not appropriate.’

I find the Nokia in my jacket, which is on the back of the chair where Marilyn had been sitting. I punch in the number from the pager. Not a number I call often, but I know whose it is.

The phone rings and rings, as if daring me to hang up. You’ve made the effort, says the voice in my head. It’s not your fault if he doesn’t answer.