I laugh bitterly. “Don’t defend her, Will, please.”

Will stands and gathers the detritus of ice-cream wrappers and empty chip boxes. He walks to the rubbish bin, shoves everything in and wanders back. On the way, he calls to Tilly and says it’s time to get moving soon. Flicking my thumb against my finger, I wait for Will to sit back down.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Hell, don’t be,” says Will. “Mum was a bloody nightmare.” He pauses and his eyes rest on Tilly. “Rachel was so good with her.”

I’m about to ask who Rachel is and then remember it’s the name of Tilly’s mum.

Will goes on, “Once I found out about Tilly, Rachel and I got back together for a bit. She was always calling Mum, chatting about mundane things. It seemed mostly a one-sided conversation on Rachel’s side and Mum never rang us, but it didn’t seem to put Rachel off. She said she wanted to include Mum, make her feel a part of Tilly’s life.”

“She sounds like a saint.”

Will nods. “In some ways she was. In others… not so much.”

My stomach feels tight and uncomfortable and my legs are aching from sitting on the wooden bench seat. I stand up and do some light stretches, thinking about Rachel and wondering if we’d have got on had we met.

“How long were you back together for?”

“About eight months.”

“What happened?”

“Why did we break up?” Will considers this for a while. “As much as we cared about each other, I think we both realized it wasn’t enough. We were staying together for Tilly’s sake, but we didn’t actually like each other much, if that make sense.”

I nod. I’ve occasionally wondered if I fell in love with Pete because I so desperately wanted to experience love. We often disappointed one another and had few things in common. Though we barely argued, it wasn’t because we got on well. Instead, I ignored a lot of things he did or said that were hurtful or irritating because I wanted our relationship to work. I wanted to prove to myself and everyone else that I was “successful” at love. I turned “being in a loving relationship” into a win or fail situation. And I’ve always been focused on success.

“Yeah, it does.” I clear my throat. “So, why do you think Rachel made such an effort with Mum?” I ask.

“She had a cousin with bipolar who committed suicide. The cousin was only twenty-three and Rachel was a couple of years younger at the time. It really affected her. She thought Mum had something similar.”

“Bipolar?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be up and down with bipolar? You know, manic crazy one minute and really depressed the next? Mum was never manic – she was more like a permanent zombie.”