Chapter 4: The Stairs

I went home for my things at two in the afternoon, because the garage doesn't close until six.

I had the key in my hand.

I'd had that key nine years, and for the first time it felt like it belonged to somebody else.

The house was quiet.

The kettle was warm. Two mugs on the draining board.

On the kitchen table, next to the fruit bowl, was a tub of nipple cream and a laminated sheet of feeding times in Joss's blocky capitals.

He had written "Poppy: eat something" at the top, and underlined it.

I stood there reading my husband's handwriting.

The back door was open and Poppy was in the garden, in my old dressing gown, rocking the baby on the bench by the bins.

She saw me through the glass and did not move.

I did not go out.

I went upstairs.

Our bedroom had the bed made, which meant he hadn't slept in it.

I took the big holdall from the top of the wardrobe and filled it without thinking.

Knickers, jeans, the grey jumper, my work shoes, my toothbrush.

Then I got down on my knees and slid out the box from the bottom of the wardrobe.

It was a shoebox, tied with ribbon, and I hadn't opened it in two years.

Inside were a hospital bracelet the size of my finger and a curl of dark hair in a twist of tissue.

There was a folded scan picture too, with a hole worn through it where Joss had once pressed his thumb.

I put the lid back on and held it against my chest.

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