‘When she told me I had to let go, I felt like I’d been dumped from the afterlife’

As I drive up Blackpool promenade with its bright lights and colourful shops, one with a sign saying “we sell fags and poppers”, I’m reassuringly reminded of what the real world looks like. Cocooned in my Notting Hill bubble, I’ve actually contemplated the need for a Range Rover (locally known as the Chelsea tractor). I shudder at the thought. What was I thinking?

Blackpool jolts me back to reality. Visiting Alex’s family in the North is going to be the break I need. It might help me tune back into my true self. As we drive past a Cinderella horse and carriage and a water slide on our right, Lola screams with joy: “Look at the water party!” I see the Pepsi Max Big One roller coaster in the near distance, and I know we are nearly at our hotel.

A wave of sadness rushes over me: Alex isn’t with us. I last visited Blackpool with him, long before I had his two children after his death, via IVF, from a batch of frozen sperm. Alex had wanted to show me his hometown, a place he proudly referred to as “shithole Britain”. Alex left Blackpool aged 16 but we often returned to see his family. And now, even without him, it’s a wonderful place – especially with the kids.