“But I’ll stay and clear up. We can get a takeaway or something if you want. So steer clear of that cake for the moment.”

THAT WAS THE best bit of the party: after everyone had left and the glasses were washed, the empty bottles put out for collection, sitting at the kitchen table with Gwen and her nice new man, eating curry out of foil cartons and not having to make an effort anymore. There aren’t many people you can just be silent with.

At several points, I nearly told Gwen I had stolen her name and was passing myself off as an unsettled-math-teacher-turned-office-assistant to the business partner of the woman who had died alongside Greg. But I stopped myself. It made me sound crazy.

Chapter Sixteen

After Gwen and Dan had left, I did the last of the washing-up and took out a bin-bag full of slimy, smelly party relics. I made a mug of tea and put the TV on, and by the time I got to bed it was after two. It didn’t matter because the next day was Saturday. My plan, if it could be called a plan, was to sleep until I woke and then to go back to sleep. If I left my bed it would be to eat and then I would return to my state of hibernation. Instead, I was woken from strange dreams—gray, hard-edged, dark, slow—by the doorbell. I pulled on a dressing gown and went down the stairs, muttering to myself like a bag lady. I was expecting to have to sign for something but instead I found Fergus on the doorstep.

“Did I wake you?” he said.

I was still fuddled with sleep. “Did you forget something?”

“No, nothing like that,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“Breakfast time,” he said, smiling. “Can I come in?”

I was genuinely tempted to say no and slam the door. But I stood aside for him, then went upstairs, had a shower and tugged a pair of jeans up over my tired, pale legs. I put on an old sweatshirt of Greg’s and found some slippers in the back of a cupboard. I could already smell coffee.

When I came down to the kitchen Fergus had cleared the kitchen table and laid out mugs and plates. “I found a muffin in the freezer,” he said. “I’m defrosting it. Unless you want bacon and eggs.”

“I don’t even want a muffin,” I said.

“Of course you do,” he said. He took the muffin from the microwave and spread it with butter, then raspberry jam, and put it on a little side plate and gave it to me. He poured a mug of coffee for me and one for himself. He sat down opposite me.

“Am I that bad?” I said.