‘At least now we’ve had the memorial service you can start to move on, Rupert.’ Any inhibitions Sadie may have about speaking her mind have disappeared with the alcohol as she looks around the room. ‘It’s time you sorted yourself out. You know, get this place tidied up, start taking care of yourself – it can’t be good for your mental health, living like this. Caro’s gone, Rupert, but you aren’t. You’re still here.’

‘Like I said, it’s getting late. You should go.’ Rupert doesn’t want to talk about it, he never wants to talk about it.

‘Of course.’ She puts her empty glass on the low coffee table, jumping slightly as the front door slams closed and Miles appears, rubbing his hands together against the cold and stinking of cigar smoke, thick and heavy in the air. ‘Miles, we should leave Rupert in peace. It’s been a long day.’ Parroting Rupert’s words back to him as she reaches behind her for her coat, her leopard print scarf, then reaching for Rupert himself, pulling him towards her as she kisses his cheek leaving a dark red stain from her lipstick. And then they go, and he is completely alone.

Any buzz that Rupert might have got from the wine is long gone now, as he shifts in the chair, a chill settling over him despite the warmth blasting from the radiators. He feels clear-headed suddenly as he looks around the kitchen, taking in the dust that thinly coats the kitchen table, the window sill and even parts of the worktop. He let the cleaner go after Caro died. Tea stains litter the floor around the waste bin and Rupert feels a sudden surge of nausea. Sadie is right. This is not who he is. He needs to sort himself out. Caro would be appalled to see the way he’s been living since she’s been gone. He shakes his head at the thought of Caro and reaches for the bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter. He pours a healthy measure and opens up his laptop, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waits for the browser to open. He’s going to do what Sadie said – he’s going to sort himself out and get things back on track. He can’t change what happened, but he can start to move on. She’s right, it’s been long enough.

An hour later, he rereads what he has written and presses the submit button, a fluttering in his stomach making the nausea rise again, as he waits for the confirmation email. It’s done.

Chapter Two