35

I close the door behind me in the flat, and it feels like a window has opened.

I stumble into the bedroom and without turning the light on, flop onto the bed and tap my phone, the glow of the screen making me squint. I’m not doing anybody any favours by ignoring Justin’s message any longer. Even if he’s writing to tell me what a terrible mistake our horrid kiss was, I’ll be on his side at least.

But by default – or habit – I open the Facebook app. Scroll.

Channel 4 News clips flash by. A baby called Arthur flashing a gummy smile is six months old today. An article from the Guardian about the reality for ‘resting’ actors has been shared by three of my friends. And, like a ghost, there’s Jack. His hairy face laughing, one thick arm stretched upwards and his fist punching the sky like a superhero. His other arm is around Florrie.

Florrie Ellen Tewkesbury

Missing you. You knows it. xxx

This is the Jack Carmichael who had that funeral. The one who liked Moby and The Mighty Boosh. He’s podgy, out of shape from too many cheap pizzas and kebabs after pound-a-pint night at his student’s union. He has a ponytail. Florrie is wearing a skirt over jeans. Both of them look pale and startled; maybe a harsh camera flash.

I don’t want to see this version of Jack.

Clicking on his name, his profile appears. Unlike his real life, his Facebook life remains active. Is this what happens now? We achieve immortality thanks to Mark Zuckerberg? Will we evolve into humans who no longer grieve, knowing the digital lives of our loved ones are available at our fingertips forever?

I click into his photos. The most recent photo he posted was – of course – the man sat in the shopping trolley. I can’t say I feel a sense of relief that I went to Bangkok, but there’s a satisfaction in what I know. I can’t play our game any more because I got the final answer. I just wish, somehow, I’d won.

What else is left unfinished?

The fridge … Our life … Slowly morphing into my life.

I plant my phone face down and wriggle out of my jumper dress and into bed. Once I’m cosy beneath the duvet, phone retrieved, I blink one eye open to open Justin’s message.

But naturally, I bury my head into the pillow and pass out.