Without speaking, I go to the doors that lead to the balcony and throw them open, even though it’s raining. The extractor fan is so ineffectual that we need another way of letting out the steam and cooking smells. I step onto the balcony and take a few deep breaths, the fresh air hitting my lungs and causing them to hurt a little. I really should give up smoking. Rory will be able to smell it on me. But after my fright earlier I’m desperate for a fag. I lean over the railings a little, enjoying the wind against my face. If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m on a boat. The flat can feel a bit claustrophobic at times. It’s on the first floor so has no garden. If it wasn’t for the views of the waterside I wouldn’t want to live here. I glance down along the river, which looks dark and unwelcoming in this light. I’m half expecting to see a figure lurking, but there’s nobody. I can see Victoria Bridge from here, all lit up, the lights refracting in the water.

We hadn’t planned on moving to Bristol, so close to where I grew up. But when Rory’s sister, Aoife, was offered a promotion at a pharmaceutical company in Amsterdam, she said we could live here and pay enough rent to cover her mortgage, which is next to nothing as she bought the flat twelve years ago. Her idea was a Godsend and benefited both of us. A place to run away to. Away from London, the Tribune and all that went wrong there. We’ve lived here for nearly a year now but the flat still doesn’t feel like home. Everywhere you look there are signs of Aoife and her life: photos of her and her friends on the white walls, the French-style bed that she bought from an expensive boutique, the charcoal linen L-shaped sofa that I’m terrified of messing up. Home is Rory’s flat in Streatham where I spent most nights towards the end, desperate to get away from my annoying housemates. Despite my reservations I’m grateful to Aoife. I had to take a pay cut going from national to local news so the cheap rent has helped us financially, especially as Rory is supply-teaching while looking for a full-time job. Rory gave up a lot for me, and when we decided to leave London for good he’d shyly asked if I’d like to move in with him, properly.

As soon as he spots me, he leaves the kitchen area to grab the remote control and turn off the TV. He knows I hate football.

‘Don’t do that because of me,’ I say, going over to him and planting a quick kiss on his lips.

He laughs. ‘You know I only watch it so my brothers don’t beat me to a pulp.’