The three of us stuck our heads into the television room to say hello to Dad. Anxiously he looked up, like a badger peering out from a burrow. ‘What’s going on?’ He clutched his beloved remote control against his chest.

‘Summit meeting.’

‘Feck.’ Longingly, he eyed the telly. Golf, from what I could see. ‘Am I needed?’

It would be cruel to interrupt his viewing. ‘Just tell me. Should I go to Luke’s mother’s funeral?’

‘She’s dead? That’s a terrible pity, she was a lovely woman. Who told you about it?’

‘Joey. He rang me. Out of the blue.’

‘Narky Joey rang you? I see.’ He paused. ‘Lookit, my opinion counts for nothing around here.’ This was uttered without a hint of bitterness. Poor Dad had accepted his place at the bottom of the pecking order a long time ago. ‘But it sounds to me that you should go. If you can face it, like.’

‘Seriously? Okay. Thanks, Dad. Look. In that case, you’re absolved from attending the actual summit.’

‘God, that’s great.’ He looked pitifully grateful. Then, ‘Did you hear about our gluten-free sausages?’

‘I did. I hear you couldn’t have told the difference. And—’

‘Vegan cheddar next week!’

‘Here’s Helen!’ Mum yelped, opening the front door to a small, drenched creature, dressed entirely in black. Her silhouette was that of a twelve-year-old girl.

‘I need a towel!’ She unzipped her long waterproof coat with a whizz and flung back the hood with such force that droplets flew everywhere. ‘Old Woman, you!’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Bring me one.’

As Mum happily disappeared up the stairs to do her bidding, Helen yelled after her. ‘Nothing flowery or pink!’ Helen had a loooooong list of things she hated so much she wanted to hit them in the face with a shovel. (Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was called her Shovel List.) Flowery patterns and the colour pink were among the countless items which featured on it.

‘I’ll get the gin.’ Margaret ducked into the kitchen and returned with a litre of Aldi gin, a bottle of tonic and a selection of mismatched glasses. Nothing for me, but I’m used to it. Even after all these years they still act as if my being clean and sober is a temporary self-indulgence.

When the drinks were poured and we were in the sitting room, Helen wearing a giant turban of a towel (yellow), I told my story. The responses were as predicted.

‘Of course you’re going.’ (Mum.)

‘You have to go.’ (Margaret.)

‘Are you mad?! She doesn’t have to go!’ (Helen.)

Claire was the only one who asked, ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I know it’ll hurt but I want to go. I think.’

‘What’s the big deal?’ Margaret asked. ‘You’ve met someone else. You and Quin are solid.’ Then she had a think. ‘But why won’t you move in with him?’