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The drive back has been quiet, and I wonder whether she’s thinking about everything I’ve told her.

For me, it’s the thought of returning to the empty house.

It’s easier to keep going when you’re busy, to not let the cogs of grief grind when you aren’t thinking or being reminded about what you’ve lost. But knowing I have to walk through the door and Paul won’t be there to greet me, tail wagging before he runs off to fetch his fox, that’s when it hurts most.

When he isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

And tonight I’ll sit on the sofa watching some rubbish on the TV without him curled up on my knee or resting his chin on my foot or making those tiny noises he makes—made—when he dozed off.

When we finally pull up in my driveway, I feel light-headed. It’s as if the sea air hasn’t only blown away the cobwebs but everything else that was occupying my thoughts.

I stop the car, and everything feels so very quiet.

“Thank you for today,” I say when it becomes clear Alice isn’t going to break the silence.

“You’re very welcome. Anytime. Though not if it’s raining. Not sure I want to go to the beach in the rain, but we could go somewhere else. Somewhere dry like the library or a tea shop or the garden centre. I like to think I’m a bit of an expert now in the plant department, although I know I still have a lot to learn. Speaking of which….” She holds her finger up as if silencing herself. “I have something for you. It’s in my car.”

The scent of her lingers in my car as she grabs her beach bag from the footwell, climbs out, and disappears towards where she parked earlier this morning.

The second she’s gone, I feel strange.

Normally, after spending time with people, all I want is for them to leave so I can be alone again, but I don’t have that usual sense of relief.

I get out, grab my bag from the boot, lock the car, and head towards my front door.

Alice comes waddling up the drive like she’s carrying the weight of the world wrapped in paper.

“Now, I know you’ll hate it. It isn’t you, it isn’t your style, and it’ll most certainly look terrible in your garden, but I had to buy it.” Her cheeks are flushed as she struggles to pass me the object.

When I take it from her, I understand why. The thing weighs a bloody ton.

I unwrap it carefully, wondering why anyone would buy somebody something they already know they won’t like.

Then I see it and understand immediately.

“I know you hate it,” she says again, peeling back more paper while it rests in my hands. “But I just saw him, and I couldn’t leave him there. There was only one left. And I know it won’t fit in your garden, but I thought you could hide him somewhere, maybe under one of the big leafy plants or tucked under the shrubs. I just thought he might help, even if you can’t see him but know he’s there with you in the garden.”

“I don’t hate it” is the first thing I say as I stare at the stone sausage dog that looks exactly like Paul. It’s as though someone cast it in his likeness.

“You don’t have to say it to be polite,” Alice says, and I pick up on the drop in her voice. I want to remind her that I can’t lie, can’t hide my true feelings like everyone else seems to do with such ease.

“I’m not just saying it to be polite,” I assure her. “How could I hate it when it looks exactly like him?”

“That’s what I thought, and it’s why I had to buy him.”

I turn him over and clock the price.

“Bloody hell, Alice.”

“Oh, shoot. Forgot to take that off.” She leans in and pulls the label from the base. “And don’t be silly. It’s not about the money. I just felt you needed something to mark his memory, something that might help you feel a little closer to him. And what better than something that can live in his favourite place?”

She’s right. Completely right.

If this were a statue of any other dog or animal, I’d be wincing at how cheesy and chintzy it looked against my very modern garden.

But it isn’t.

It’s a little statue of Paul.