‘Suit yourself,’ she says and leaves without another word.

When she’s gone, I open up my emails. My inbox is overcrowded with obligation and invitations. It’s mostly junk, discounts for things I neither want nor need, but there is one message that catches my eye. My mouse hovers over the familiar name and my eyes fix themselves on the one word in the subject line, as though it is difficult to translate:

Hello.

I start to pick the skin off my lip with my fingernails. I should delete the email, I know that’s what I should do. I casually glance around the office. I’m still alone. I pick another bit of skin off my upper lip and put it on my desk. It’s stained purple from last night’s wine. I remember taking the business card out of my purse when I couldn’t sleep last night, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. I remember typing his name into an email on my phone, dithering over the subject line, composing the casual note, worrying it might look odd to send it so late at night, sending it anyway. My cheeks flush with shame, unable to remember now exactly what I said.

I open the email and read it, then I read it again, more slowly this time, carefully interpreting each individual word.

For old times’ sake.

I try on the words as I’m reading, to see if they fit. I can still picture their author if I close my eyes.

Happy memories.

They weren’t all happy.

A drink to catch up?

I pull another piece of skin off my lip and examine the tiny strip of myself as it dries and hardens on my fingertip. I put it in the small pile with the others.

Catch up. Catch. Caught.

Paul is missing. My marriage is hanging by a thread. What am I doing? The thought is stillborn.

‘Hello, earth to Amber?’ says Jo, waving her hands in front of my face. I close down the email window, brush the tiny pile of skin off my desk and feel my cheeks redden.

‘Have you been playing Space Invaders?’ I blurt out.

‘What? No. Why?’ She smiles.

‘Because you’re invading my space.’

Her smile vanishes.

‘Sorry. I heard someone say that once, thought it was funny. I didn’t mean to snap at you, I was in a complete world of my own.’

‘I noticed. Try not to worry, I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘Who?’ I ask, wondering if she saw the email from Edward.

‘Paul? Your husband?’ she says, frowning.

‘Right. Yes, sorry. I’m a bit all over the place today.’

Madeline’s voice booms from her office, silencing us as she summons her PA. She looms over her in the doorway and hands over her credit card and a list of instructions. She wants some dry cleaning picked up, tells her the PIN and everything else she needs to know. The way she speaks to people makes me so angry.

I think about Edward’s email as we talk through the morning briefings. I think about it in the studio, during interviews and throughout the phone-in. I barely hear anything anyone says all morning. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Paul hasn’t touched me for months and I haven’t done anything wrong. We’re just being friendly, that’s all. It’s just a memory of another time and place. Memories can’t hurt anyone, unless they are shared.

Before

Saturday, 7th December 1991

Dear Diary,

Taylor came to the house yesterday. I was dreading it. Dad had to work late again, so I only had to worry about Mum being embarrassing. She picked us up from school in our battered blue Ford Escort, which is basically a tin can on wheels. Taylor’s family have a Volvo and a Renault 5. Mum made sure we were both wearing seat belts – she doesn’t normally care – and then she gave us a carton of Ribena each to drink on the way home. She doesn’t normally do that either. It only takes five minutes to drive home from school, so it’s not as if we were going to die of thirst. I thought the car wasn’t going to start, but, on the third attempt, the engine coughed enough times to get going and Mum made a joke of it like she always does. So embarrassing.

We didn’t really talk much in the car. Mum kept looking at me in the rear-view mirror and asking Taylor and I stupid questions like, ‘How was your day?’ in a silly singsong voice. I said what I always say when she asks that question, fine, but Taylor went into way more detail and told her about the portraits we are working on in art. That annoyed me because I’m painting a picture of Nana and I wanted it to be a surprise.

When we got home, I watched Taylor’s face to see her reaction. The first thing you notice about Nana’s house is the paint. Nana really liked the colour blue. There’s a blue front door, windows and garage, and they all peel, like my nose when it’s burnt. Sometimes I give it a helping hand, I like the way the paint feels beneath my nails. There are net curtains that used to be white in every window and a concrete driveway that always has a puddle of oil in the middle. Taylor’s face stayed the same, even when she had to get out of the car on my side because her door was broken and gets stuck sometimes.

When we finally got inside, Mum said I should show Taylor my room, so I did. It didn’t take long, there’s not much to see. I told her that it was Nana’s room and that she died there. I thought that would freak her out, but it didn’t. Her face still stayed the same. We haven’t redecorated, so my room still has Nana’s stripy blue wallpaper with white flowers and there’s a blue carpet that’s completely flat from years of being trodden on. The twin beds match the wardrobe and dressing table, it’s all dark brown wood that smells of Mr Sheen. It’s like living in a museum but I’m allowed to touch the stuff. Taylor said she liked my room, but I think she was just being polite. She’s like that. She told me that her bedroom carpet is pink and we both agreed that might be even worse than blue.