I face the road, feeling ashamed. She’s right. I’ll end up dead. But sometimes death seems like a much better option than navigating this unknown world. Especially without Jake. “Maybe one day,” I muse, knowing deep down I’m deluded. There’s not a woman on this planet who could take me and my demons on. Or, more to the point, would want to. This chilled Jesse, the one everyone sees, the laid-back guy? He’s a shell. An act. Because acting like I’m fine is so much easier than admitting I’m fucked up. That I need help. Although I know waking up with a hangover each morning pretty much spells that out to everyone I know.

We make it to Lusso in good time, Cathy chatting the whole way. “Oh lord, oh my,” she sings as the gates slowly open. “This is a bit fancy, isn’t it?”

I laugh and pull into one of my allocated spaces. The car park is full of vans, tradesmen all working their nuts off to get completed on time. I round the car and open the door for Cathy, helping her, and she doesn’t fight me. The Aston is low, and Cathy isn’t a spring chicken anymore. She links arms with me, and I lead her in, past the concierge desk to the elevator where Chris is waiting.

“Mr. Ward,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it and make the introductions.

“Cathy, this is Chris, the estate agent. Chris, Cathy, my housekeeper.”

“Or penthouse keeper now,” she says, and I laugh as Chris taps in a code to call the elevator. We board and yet another code is entered before we’re carried to the penthouse.

“I’m sure Mr. Ward will give you the codes once he’s changed them after he’s moved in,” Chris says, and I hear him and Cathy exchange a few words and laughter, but my mind is off again. She’s been in this elevator. I’m beginning to regret not taking up Chris’s offer to oversee the interior taking shape. I may have encountered Miss Ava O’Shea much sooner than Friday.

Cathy’s oohing and aahing continues when we get to the door, and once Chris has let us in, her awe notches up a few more levels. “Well, I’m very glad I didn’t buy any perishables,” she says. “My God, this tour will take a whole day!”

“Why don’t you take a look around?” I suggest, smiling. I don’t need to offer twice. She’s off, poking in and out of rooms.

I wander into the kitchen, gazing around. I’ve neglected to appreciate just how amazing a job Ava O’Shea has done. There’s not a detail she’s missed, even down to dressing the place.

“Looking forward to moving in?” Chris asks, joining me.