I rang the bell. A large part of me was hoping she wasn’t home. But where else would she be? She hadn’t been able to work, she’d said. Leaving the flat was too much for her.

There was a moment of silence, and I heard feet scuffling in the hallway. Karen stood in her doorway, the communal hallway behind her littered with pizza leaflets and dead leaves. She wore too-large jeans and a baggy sweatshirt I registered as our college hoody. It was the first time in my life I’d no idea what was going on behind her eyes. Her daily hopes and dreams. Her wish list, who she hated most at work, which particular quirk of Jake’s was causing alarm. She was like a stranger. She was wearing glasses. I tried to think: had I known Karen wore glasses? She said, ‘Oh.’

‘Hi.’ Would we ever be like we had been, words tumbling over each other, carrying on five conversations at once? Mike had always shaken his head. How do you keep track of it? And we’d smiled indulgently over his head. Because what we had was special. And look, that was gone now. Every memory involving Mike was spoiled like a sheet of paper dropped into water, a dull stain spreading through it. ‘Can I come in? I need to discuss some things with you.’ Business-like. That was the best way.

A flicker of anger crossed her face, and she went to shut the door on me. I held it open. ‘Please, Kar! Please. I need to talk to you.’

‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Her voice was low.

‘I know. But you came to me. I’m doing the same, OK? Please.’

As she led me upstairs, saying nothing, I tried not to look around me. I wasn’t sure I could control my face at the smell of cooking and the dirt on the stair carpet. The loud noise of CBeebies blared out from another flat. Karen and Jake’s was nicer, prints hung on the wall, stacks of second-hand books, a throw on the sofa. But there was no disguising the mould on the wall or the stink of damp in the corridor, Jake’s room little more than a cupboard. She stood in the living room with her hands on her hips. No offer of tea. I sat down on the old brown sofa. I realised suddenly it was the one we’d had in our first London flat. Handed down.

‘How are you?’

She ignored my question. Just as well really. I wasn’t ready to hear the answer. Instead she crossed to the mantelpiece and took a cigarette from a packet of B&H. Karen hadn’t smoked since uni – not until the night it happened, of course. She saw my look. ‘It’s either this or vodka.’

‘Right. Sure.’

‘What do you want?’