And so this year, I can have my Christmas, not Steve’s. Not his turkey, that I never liked. Not his shoes left in the hallway for me to clear up, and his presents that I had to buy and wrap for him. And not his blasted circles in the Radio Times. Because now, for the first time in more than twenty years, as I leaf through the schedule, I can circle the films I want to watch. The “nonsense” he never liked, and that never fitted round the bloody darts anyway.

In fact, as I turn the pages, one of them leaps out at me – Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. Steve would have hated it – and I turn the TV on, and smile as the music to the opening credits fills the room.

And the cat leaps off my lap – the cat Steve never wanted, and would never let me get while he was alive – and I hear him clatter through the catflap to relieve himself in the pristine snow that covers the new patio.

And I think yes, it’s going to be a very Merry Christmas after all.

Ruth Ware is the author of The Death of Mrs Westaway, (Harvill Secker, £12.99)

‘Merry Christmas, Steve’ by Ruth Ware