Can I stay here? I don’t really want to go back to my mum’s.

You can stay as long as you want.

She had lain down on the other side of my bed and curled up in a little ball. I watched her sleep, then pulled the duvet over her.

Will’s daughter needed me. It was as simple as that. And, whatever my sister said, I owed him. Here was a way to feel I hadn’t been completely useless. I could still do something for him.

And that envelope proved I was someone who could get a decent job offer. That was progress. I had friends, a sort of boyfriend, even. This, too, was progress.

I ignored Nathan’s missed calls and deleted his voicemail messages. I would explain it all to him in a day or two. It felt, if not like a plan, then as close to one as I was going to get right now.

Sam was due shortly after I got back on Tuesday. He texted at seven to say he was going to be late. He sent another at a quarter past eight, saying he wasn’t sure what time he would make it. I’d felt flat all day, struggling with the stasis that comes from not having a job to go to, worries about how I was going to pay my bills, and being trapped in an apartment with someone else who similarly had nowhere to go and I was unwilling to leave by herself. At half nine the buzzer went. Sam was at the front door, still in uniform. I let him in and stepped out into the corridor, closing the front door behind me. He emerged from the stairwell and walked towards me, his head down. He was grey with exhaustion and gave off a strange, disturbed energy.

‘I thought you weren’t coming. What happened? Are you okay?’

‘I’m being hauled up in front of Disciplinary.’

‘What?’

‘Another crew saw my rig outside the night we met Garside. They told Control. I couldn’t give them a good answer as to why we were attending something that wasn’t on the system.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I fudged it, said someone had come running out and asked us for help. And that it had turned out to be a prank. Donna backed me up, thank God. But they’re not happy.’

‘It’s not that bad, surely?’

‘And one of the A and E nurses asked Lily how she knew me. And she said I’d given her a lift home from a nightclub.’

My hand went to my mouth. ‘What does that mean?’

‘The union’s arguing my case. But if they find against me I’ll be suspended. Or worse.’ A new, deep furrow had etched it’s way between his brows.

‘Because of us. Sam, I’m so sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘She wasn’t to know.’

I was going to step forward and hold him then, to put my arms around him, rest my face against his. But something held me back: a sudden, unbidden image of Will, turning his face away from me, unreachable in his unhappiness. I faltered, then a second too late, reached out a hand instead and touched Sam’s arm. He glanced down at it, frowning slightly, and I had the slightly discomfiting sensation that he knew something of what had just passed through my head.

‘You could always give it up and raise your chickens. Build your house.’ I heard my voice, trying too hard. ‘You’ve got options! A man like you. You could do anything!’

He gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He kept staring at my hand.

We stood there for an awkward moment. ‘I’d better go. Oh,’ he said, holding out a parcel. ‘Someone left this by the door. Didn’t think it would last long in your lobby.’

‘Come in, please.’ I took it from him, feeling I had let him down. ‘Let me cook you something badly. Come on.’

‘I’d better get home.’

He walked back down the corridor before I could say anything else.

From the window, I watched him leave, walking stiffly back to his motorbike, and I felt a momentary cloud pass over me again. Don’t get too close. And then I remembered Marc’s advice at the end of the last session: Understand that your grieving, anxious brain is simply responding to cortisol spikes. It is perfectly natural to be fearful of getting close to anyone. Some days I felt as if I had two cartoon advisers constantly arguing on each side of my head.

In the living room Lily turned away from the television. ‘Was that Ambulance Sam?’

‘Yup.’

She went back to the television. Then the parcel grabbed her attention. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh. It was in the lobby. It’s addressed to you.’

She stared suspiciously at it, as if she were still too conscious of the possibility of unpleasant surprises. Then she peeled back the layers of wrapping to reveal a leather-bound photograph album, its cover embossed with ‘For Lily (Traynor)’.

She opened it slowly, and there, on the first page, covered with tissue, was the black and white photograph of a baby. Underneath it was a handwritten note.

Your father weighed 9lb 2oz. I was absolutely furious with him for being so big, as I’d been told I’d have a nice small one! He was a very cross baby and kept me running ragged for months. But when he smiled … Oh! Old ladies would cross the road to tickle his cheeks (he hated this, of course).

I sat down beside her. Lily flicked forward two pages and there was Will, in a royal blue prep-school uniform and cap, scowling at the camera. The note underneath read:

Will hated that school cap so much that he hid it in the dog’s basket. The second one he ‘lost’ in a pond. The third time his father threatened to stop his pocket money, but he simply traded football cards until he’d made it back. Even the school couldn’t make him wear it – I think he had a weekly detention until he was thirteen.

Lily touched his face. ‘I looked like him when I was small.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘he’s your dad.’

She allowed herself a small smile, then turned to the next page. ‘Look. Look at this one.’

In the next photograph he smiled directly out at the camera – the same skiing-holiday picture that had been in his bedroom when we had first met. I gazed at his beautiful face and the familiar wave of sadness passed over me. And then, unexpectedly, Lily started to laugh. ‘Look! Look at this one!’ Will, his face covered with mud after a rugby game, another where he was dressed as a devil, taking a running jump off a haystack. A page of silliness – Will as prankster, laughing, human. I thought of the typed sheet Marc had given me after I had missed Idealization Week: It is important not to turn the dead into saints. Nobody can walk in the shadow of a saint.