“What kind of guy is that? And, anyway, it doesn’t need to be him, it could be her.”

“She’s too moral. And too pregnant. What about Mary and Eric?”

“She would have told me,” I said firmly.

“Sure? What about if it was him?”

“She would definitely have told me that too. Even if she didn’t, I’d know.”

“How?”

“I just would. She’s a very bad liar. Her neck goes blotchy.”

“What about me—would you be able to tell with me?”

“Yes—so watch it.”

“How would you know?”

“I just would.”

“Trusting fool.”

We smiled at each other, sure of our happiness.

I got out of bed, pushed my feet into slippers, went downstairs and into the kitchen, turning on the overhead light and blinking in the sudden dazzle. I saw from the wall clock that it was nearly three o’clock. It was windy outside and when I pressed my face to the window, trying to make out the shape of the roofs and chimneys, I imagined all those people out there, lying safely in bed with each other, warm and submerged in their dreams. I could still hear Greg’s voice and see his smile, and the contrast between the intense comfort of that memory and this cold, empty darkness was like a blow to the stomach, making my eyes water. No one tells you how physical unhappiness can be, how it hurts in your sinuses and throat, glands, muscles and bones.

I made myself a mug of hot chocolate and drank it slowly. Greg’s face faded. I knew he wasn’t here, wasn’t anywhere. His ashes were in a small square box with a rubber band around it. But I heard his teasing voice. Trusting fool, he called me.

“FERGUS.”

“Ellie?” His eyes widened with surprise. He was still in his dressing gown, unshaven and puffy with sleep. “Are you OK?”

“Did I wake you?”

“What’s happened?”

“Can I come in?”

He stood back, pulling his dressing gown more tightly around him, and I walked past him into the kitchen, where the four of us had sat so many times, eating takeaways, playing cards, drinking almost until it got light. The supper things were still on the table: two stacked plates, an empty serving bowl, a half-drunk bottle of red wine. Fergus started to collect them up, dropping the forks on the tiled floor with a clatter.

“I know it’s a bit early.”

“It doesn’t matter. Coffee? Tea? Breakfast? Devilled kidneys? That last one was a joke. Jemma will be in bed for ages. She’s on maternity leave now.” As he said this, I saw anxiety cross his face: Jemma was on maternity leave and I was childless, barren, shamed and alone.

“Coffee, please. Maybe some toast.”

“Marmalade, honey, jam?”

“Whatever. Honey.”

“If we’ve got any. No. No honey. Or jam, actually.”

“Marmalade’s fine.”