And then I kept seeing that car. The blue Polo. At the studio, parked at the end of the street, sometimes gone by the time I looked back. At first, I told myself it was a coincidence. Then I started to look for it. I started hoping for it. Someone was still paying attention, someone still saw me, even if I couldn’t always see them. There was something comforting about being known again, until I watched Michael get into that same blue Polo after sleeping with my husband two days ago. And Poirot was still alive.

That’s the part I keep going back to. Not the car, not Michael, not the woman on the bench in her neat grey coat. Poirot. My protector, my warm, breathing shadow limping beside me. Two days later, Ralph is upstairs stripping the bed again after Micheal's visit because, apparently, this is who we are now. Melissa Cartwright, her husband and their third, if I believed in God I'd have asked for His help a long time ago. I’m in the kitchen, smoking underneath the extractor fan even though it does nothing but swirl the smoke around. Poirot is by the sliding door, watching the garden with the same stiff attention as usual these days. “Don’t start,’ I tell him, almost growling back at him. He looks at me once, then back outside. The rain has stopped, and everything looks slick and bruised. The patio glints under the security light. Beyond it, the bushes sit dark green and swollen at the end of the garden. Poirot whines. “What?” He scratches once at the glass. I should leave it. I know I should. But there is part of me, a stupid, desperate part, that wants to see if she is there. A part of me that wants to prove something, to be frightened properly. So, I open the door. 

Poirot bolts. Not into the garden. Past it. Through the side gate, Ralph still hasn’t fixed. I hear his collar tags clinking against one another, then his sharp bark. “Poirot!” I run after him in my socks, feet slapping hard on the wet pavement. As I turn the corner onto the street, there is a dull thud. For a second, nothing moves. Poirot lies on his side in the soaked tarmac, one leg twitching like he’s dreaming. “No,” I whisper. It comes out politely. Like someone has offered me the wrong coat. Headlights hold him in place, I kneel beside him, and it feels like the road is seeping through my pyjama bottoms. His body is still warm. I put both hands on him, as if I can keep him together by touching enough of him at once. Behind me, a car door opens. “I’m sorry,” a woman says. “I’m so sorry. He just ran out.” I know her voice before I look up. Not because I’ve heard it before. Because I’ve imagined it. She stands beside the blue Polo in her grey coat, her hair tucked neatly behind both ears, her lipstick perfect despite the rain. The woman from the bench. The woman from the bushes. Ralph comes crashing out of the house barefoot. “What happened? Mel? What–” Then he sees Poirot. I don’t remember carrying him inside. I remember Ralph crying, though. Ugly, open-mouthed crying, which annoys me because, ultimately, he hated him. I remember the woman asking if she should call someone. I remember saying no and inviting her in. That's the part I don’t understand. Or maybe I do. 

She sits at the kitchen island with both hands folded around a mug she hasn’t taken a drink from yet. Ralph has wrapped Poirot in one of the bed sheets. Clean, at least.

“I’m Cheryl,” she says. I nod. “I’m Melissa.” She smiles slightly. “I know.” Ralph looks at her then. Properly. “You know my wife?” Cheryl’s eyes flick to Ralph. “Everyone knows your wife.”

It should flatter me. It does, for half a second. Then it curdles. Ralph wipes his face with the heel of his hand, like a child who’s just fallen over. “I’m going to call the vet. Or someone. I don’t know.” He leaves the room because grief has made him practical. Cheryl and I sit in the kitchen, listening to him speak in a low, broken voice upstairs.

“I really am sorry,” she says.

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“He was beautiful.”

“He was my best friend.”

“I know,” she says again. I look at her. She looks down into her tea as if she’s slightly embarrassed. “You said it once. On the show.” I don’t remember saying that on the show. I’ve said a lot on the show. I’ve said women should freeze grapes instead of eating sweets. I’ve said forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. I’ve said I felt empowered by a bob haircut that Gok Wan suggested which I cried about for three days. 

“You watch it?” 

“When I can.”

“That’s unfortunate.” 

She smiles. “You’re better than the others.”

I hate how quickly I want to believe her. “Which one am I?” I laugh at my own question through tears. “The funny one? The kind one? The washed-up one?” I don’t know why I’m trying to joke with her. 

“The lonely one,” she says with her eyes fixed on me, it feels like she’s reaching into my chest and gripping my heart with her pale, shaking hands. 

“You don’t know me.” I say as if I’m trying to bat her fingers away. She glances around the kitchen, taking note of the crumbs on the counter top and the rubbish I haven’t managed to take out yet. 

“You don’t actually like bao buns, do you?” she says. 

I blink at her. “What?” 

“My son loves them. He’ll do anything for someone who’ll feed him.” she chuckles slightly, like she’s remembering something I wasn’t there for. My mouth dries. “Micheal?” His name falls out my mouth like vomit. She doesn’t answer straight away. Just looks at me, properly this time, like she’s glad I’ve finally caught up. 

“He’s always been easy to please,” she says finally. “That’s his problem.” 

“You’ve been watching us,” I say.

“You made it very easy.” 

Ralph moves upstairs, a door closing, water running. Normal noises echoing through the house. They feel miles away. “You followed him here?” 

“No. I followed you.”

I swallow hard. “Why?” 

She smiles at me, she’s glad I asked. “Because you look back.” My head is spinning. “You always look back,” she continues. “Most people don’t. They feel it, but they keep walking. You wait. You want to know who’s there.” 

I think about the park. The bench. The bushes. The car. All the times I could have just kept walking. “You liked it,” she says. I open my mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. She watches me struggle like she has all the time in the world. “I didn’t mean to hurt your dog,” she adds, softer now. 

“Don’t,” I say quickly. “Don’t talk about him.” She nods obediently. Upstairs, Ralph calls my name. “Mel?” 

I don’t answer. Cheryl stands, smoothing down the front of her coat. “I should go.” I watch her, my chest is tight and my head is loud, swimming with everything she’s just said and everything she hasn’t. 

“Cheryl.” She pauses. I don’t think about it properly. I just say it. “If you were going to…come back, you wouldn’t need to wait outside.”

The words hang there, strange and irreversible. Cheryl studies me for a moment, in the same way I think she does when I’m not face to face with her. Then she smiles, “I know.” She leaves; the front door closes softly behind her. I stay where I am, standing in the kitchen that suddenly feels too big, too quiet again. I look towards the garden. Nothing moves. No shadows, no one watching anymore. I hate it. Ralph calls my name again, closer this time. “Mel?” I don’t answer. I just stand there, waiting, just in case she’s still looking back.