Deep breaths. Smile. Take in the air and face it, you bloody wanktosser.

I pulled the key out of my pocket and turned it achingly slowly. I was preparing myself, psyching myself up. It was getting on for nine and she would wonder where I had been, knowing I wouldn’t still be at work at this late time. I’d sat in the café where I used to meet Abi and her friends after work. I’d nursed a coffee for an hour and then pushed egg and chips around my plate for two. My heart was hammering in my chest, but I fought the urge to run.

Quiet. Nothing. No indication that anything was different. The sofa was now sitting in front of the window. The table and chairs were settling into place in the corner of the room, but there were flowers and another set of keys on the counter top, taunting me with their presence.

‘Hi.’

I turned and caught her eyes. They were once bright and sparkling, but now they were dull and lifeless. Pain tore through them. Hurt was stamped across them. How had she changed so quickly?

‘Hey. You got the keys then?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ She smiled tightly and rose up on her toes.

‘Settled in?’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

Yes. She was here.

Her auburn hair hung in a ponytail and she didn’t have a scrap of make up on her face. She looked tired and drawn. She hid her body under a large t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms. I’d forgotten the last time I saw her dressed up, even just wearing a pair of bloody jeans. The heels and jewellery were packed away long before she had agreed to come here.

‘What do you want to do? It’s your first night in Nottingham.’

‘I’m just gonna go to bed.’

‘It’s only nine. I could order a takeaway or we could go out to eat, somewhere close? I know a great little place—’

‘I’m tired, Jamie,’ she said, interrupting my attempt to make things normal. ‘I don’t want to go out. Don’t push me,’ she snapped. ‘Just because I’m here, doesn’t mean I’m magically OK.’

Nothing had changed. We were in a different city, different flat, opposite mind frames, but everything was the same.

‘We’ve got to try. I made a promise.’ I whispered the words I thought she expected to hear as she breezed past me and left me standing alone in the kitchen.

* * *

On Sunday evening, I pulled on my shorts and t-shirt, laced up my trainers and made the excuse that I was going out for a run. The truth was that I was sitting on top of the green electrical box at the end of the road. I didn’t even break a sweat. As people passed, I pretended to wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and took a swig of water, deep breathing like an idiot just so they wouldn’t think I was some weirdo loitering in the neighbourhood. The last thing I needed was a peeping Tom tag.

We hadn’t stepped out of the door all weekend. I was slowly suffocating under the pressure of pleasant small talk, tense exchanges, dodging the big issues and walking on shards of glass that represented everything about us. I needed some air. I needed to put space between us, which was fucking idiotic because she had only been there two days.

I pulled out my phone and pushed the earbuds into both ears. I had a playlist; the soundtrack of my life that had I titled Spitfire so it wouldn’t create any awkward questions or comments but still had personal meaning.

Abi Sinclair. My spitfire. My green-eyed, perfect spitfire.

After the shortest run on record, I made my way back to the flat. As soon as I opened the door, I smelled burning so strong it made my eyes water. I immediately saw two pieces of toast under the grill with what looked like charcoal layered across the top on what I assumed was once an attempt at making cheese on toast. I pulled it out and slung it into the sink, dousing it with water to create a deafening sizzle.

‘Clara!’ I shouted through to the living room. I stood in the hallway and shouted down to the bedroom and bathroom. Silence. The house was still and I could feel my spine tense up. I found her sitting on the bed in the dark, her back resting against the wall. A laptop on her knee was lighting up her face and she was chewing her nails nervously.

‘You know, there’s a website that tells you the date and time of when you’re going to die,’ she said, not looking up at me.

‘What are you doing? You left toast under the grill. The place could have fucking burnt down.’ I re-evaluated my tone as I spoke. I wanted to scream and shout, but I understood from her body language that I needed to be softer and less direct.

‘Do you think I should type my name in? I wonder what it would say.’

‘What are you doing? Turn it off.’ I tried to close the laptop but she pulled it away from me and started typing. ‘Clara, don’t do that. That’s not going to help, is it?’

‘I’m interested to know,’ she said, still typing. ‘I wonder if it would confirm that I’ve already died. Or maybe it will just say it’s too late.’

‘Go on then. Tell me. Let’s sit and look at when we’re going to die, shall we, because won’t that improve the mood?’ She looked up at me and started to laugh. It started small a first, like she was remembering something that had happened earlier and was about to tell me before she realised it was the kind of thing where you had to be there and to re-tell it would cause only a mild smile.

‘What are you talking about? How can a website tell you when you’re going to die?’ She continued laughing. ‘It’s a load of bollocks, Jamie. You’re so gullible sometimes. So trusting.’

‘Clara, is everything OK? Are you feeling good or do we need to—’

‘I’m fine. You’re the one taking this too seriously. I was having a laugh. No one knows when you’re going to die. It’s not like you get a choice in the matter, is it?’

I nodded my head and left her in the room, still uneasy with the conversation. The smell of burning stung my eyes as I flung open the windows wondering how the smoke alarms didn’t go off. The unease I had about the move was starting to spread. The promise of a fresh start was not as fresh as I had planned. In fact, it was well past its best before date.