Mum and Dad would have performed a similar life-improving service for me if they’d been able to, except in my case it was trickier. I didn’t mind what I wore or ate and wasn’t scared of any of my toys or books. I wasn’t a fussy, high-maintenance child like Lee. Nothing made me unhappy apart from the other members of my family, and Mum and Dad could hardly remove themselves from my orbit. They didn’t realize they needed to; they thought I was the problem.

Perhaps they were right.

I sit down at the glass-topped table in Melissa’s kitchen, my least favorite room in her house. It looks as I imagine a morgue would look if morgues had yellow jars labeled “Tea,” “Coffee” and “Sugar” on their windowsills: white tiles on the floor and on the walls; stainless-steel appliances, sink and taps; chairs with thin metal legs that make me think of insects from science-fiction films and scrape horribly against the floor if you shift in your seat even slightly. There’s a clock on the wall that’s past its best; its tick sounds louder and more intrusive every time I visit, like the string of an instrument being plucked hard and then left to settle.

I always sit facing away from the clock so that I can see out of the window. Still I can’t escape the geriatric ticking and always half expect Melissa to place an exam paper down on the table in front of me. I would fail, of course.

Being here makes me long for my own kitchen. For both my kitchens: the one in Enfys Road that I left behind, and the one in Bartholomew Gardens where Adam is now, preparing his and the children’s supper. I can see him clearly, even though I can’t see him at all. He’s taken off his jacket and shirt and put on a T-shirt, probably his Rolling Stones one. He’ll have the radio on, and he’ll keep muttering about how boring each station’s offering is and changing the channel at the same time he’s holding an uncooked meatball, which he’ll squash accidentally and blame on whichever pompous presenter or inane DJ has annoyed him most recently. This will lead to not-entirely-serious grumbling about the BBC having no right to be government-funded when it’s so blatantly substandard.

If I were with Adam now—and I long to be—I would bury my face in his dark wavy hair and he’d put his arms around me without thinking, still moaning about the radio, and I would know that I don’t need any other man in my life apart from him.

I don’t. Not after today’s shocks. I just want to feel safe, whether or not I deserve to.

You know exactly what you deserve. And you keep getting it, don’t you? From King Edward, from Gavin . . .

He is no less dead . . .