I’ve holed myself up at home and lied to my family that I’ve got a rotten case of sickness and diarrhea to stop them from coming to visit me. It wouldn’t usually keep them at bay, but Elle’s being careful because of the baby and Mum and Auntie June have gone for their customary kick-off-the-new-year-in-style spa weekend. They tried to cajole me into going, hence the fictitious bug I don’t want to pass around like a belated Christmas prezzie.

I’ve missed Freddie intensely these last few days. The times I get to see him are magical, but I’ve missed him keenly here in my long waking hours. I look at my watch. I’ve been up for a couple of hours but it’s still only eight-thirty in the morning, barely light. I’m going to force myself into basic self-care in a while: take a shower, heat up some soup, watch the last remnants of holiday TV. I’ve been wallowing since New Year’s, unable or unwilling to scoop myself up. I’m kind enough to myself to acknowledge that perhaps I needed to go low, an inevitable reaction to the high emotion of New Year’s, but it can’t go on. I have to show up for work, and for life, on Monday, so I need to clean myself up, eat, maybe even put a wash on and drag the hoover around. I tried to call Elle just now, but she didn’t answer. Morning sickness has kicked in over the last couple of days, so she’s probably sleeping.

I sit in the corner of the sofa and pull my knees into my chest. I daren’t call Jonah, not after the way we left things on New Year’s Eve. He was right, I know—it doesn’t help either of us to be around each other anymore. I honestly don’t know if that will ever change, a thought that makes me rest my chin on my knees, weary. There’s no getting away from it. I’m deeply lonely. My eyes settle on the pill bottle on the mantelpiece and my resolve to spend the day doing productive things evaporates, because there’s a place I can go where I won’t feel so alone.