Nick laughs, but not in the natural, spontaneous way as he has on the other times I’ve seen him. Perhaps my delivery could have been better. I hate being pressurised to recount anecdotes like that.

Wednesday, September 25

Izzy was finally well enough to go back to school today. Happily, it means she’ll be able to go to Brownies tonight, and to the camp in Perthshire this coming weekend. I must make the most of this time, when I’ll be alone – but not lonely, most definitely not. I plan to treat it as a weekend of relaxation and culture, visiting museums – no, not museums! I might give those places a miss for a while.

The cinema, then. And perhaps some exercise: a little light jogging, or a swim, ploughing up and down the pool by myself, trying to beat back the cushiony wodge that appears to be growing by the day around my stomach. I might even go for a spin on my bike. That’s it, I decide; it’ll be a practical, purposeful, health-giving weekend, beneficial to body and mind. I can’t wait.

Saturday, September 28

Annoyingly, I’ve had to resort to asking Andy to pop round to access the loft. I hate asking him to do anything. I can’t bear his bouncy, ‘Sure, happy to help!’ attitude, all muscles flexed and penis swinging, perhaps because it brings to mind his Eager Elf, lightbulb-changing period, when he was still secretly shagging Estelle Lang but trying to seem like the good guy around the house.

Anyway, never mind that now. The attic is where our lesser spotted camping equipment is stashed (with all his lumbago/sciatica moanings, Andy never took to the under-canvas life). And as I’ve neglected to buy Izzy a new sleeping bag for the camping trip – which would have avoided this scenario – I now need him to shift the awkward hatch and manoeuvre himself up into the gloomy space, which only he has ever been able to do successfully.

He was handy for some things, I guess. He certainly always seemed keener to forage about in the attic than in my underwear.

He’s up there now, biffing around and humming cheerfully. A few minutes later the hero reappears, clambering down our flimsy stepladder and presenting the sleeping bag to me like a prize pike. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks. You know I really can’t manage to lift that hatch. Or, if I do, I always think it’s going to smash down on my head.’

Andy pulls a concerned face. ‘You don’t need to do it. Just phone me.’ We head downstairs where he sips the coffee I made him. ‘You can always ask me to do anything, you know,’ he adds.

‘I don’t think I’ll need anything else,’ I say quickly.

‘Okay.’

‘And if I did, I’d just get someone in.’