Mum gave me a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and pity. ‘Come on, love. It won’t be like this forever. I’m sure things will calm down at some point, and she’ll be around more.’

‘I know, it’s just … I barely ever see her these days. She was in the office all weekend, and out most nights last week too.’

‘Well, like I said, she’s doing well. That’s a good thing. You should be proud of her.’

‘I am,’ I muttered, but clearly it wasn’t very convincing, because Mum snorted into her coffee and said, ‘Please don’t tell me you’re having a ridiculous macho crisis because your wife makes more money than you do?’

I flicked the little foil ball into the middle of the table. ‘No, Mum. Of course not.’

‘Good. Because I thought I’d raised you better than that,’ she said huffily.

‘It’s not about money,’ I snapped. ‘Money’s got nothing to do with it. I’m happy she’s doing something she’s good at and she loves. It just reminds me that I’m not doing it, that’s all.’

Mum sighed through her nose and fiddled with her necklace. I remember it struck me then that she was the only person I could really talk to about this kind of stuff: frustration with work and the feeling that Daphne was leaving me behind or getting sick of me. I couldn’t speak to Daff about it, for obvious reasons, and I never found a way to broach it with Harv or any of my other mates either. Mum was my only real lifeline for this stuff. She always knew the right thing to say. But that night, I didn’t want to hear the right thing. I just wanted to lash out.

‘Work’s not going well, then?’ she said finally.

I responded to that by rolling my eyes and stuffing my mouth with chocolate.

‘Well, you just need to keep at it, and it’ll all come good. Or try something new. Remember’ – she raised a finger, mock-serious – ‘everything will be OK in the end. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.’

‘Mum, you’ve gone into teacher mode again,’ I muttered. ‘Where d’you read that, on a fridge magnet?’

‘No.’ She half smiled at me. ‘Saw it on Facebook, actually. Rather good, I thought.’

She was trying to cheer me up, make me laugh, but I wasn’t in the mood. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t need meaningless slogans. I’m not revising for my bloody GCSEs. This is actual real life.’

I could feel myself degenerating into a sulky teenager – something I often did when I was back here – but I couldn’t snap out of it. I was pissed off and frustrated, and I wanted someone to take it out on.

Mum took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, what about your own writing?’ she pressed.