‘I hope you find a woman like your mum. Someone who really loves you and is good to you.’

I grunted.

‘But make sure you sow some wild oats first, eh?’ He winked at me and I shuffled away in search of the ketchup.

On the way home, a huge thunderstorm cracked the sky open as we hit the M25. Rain bounced hard off the windscreen and all the cars put their lights on as the world darkened around us. Dad was driving, leaning forward in his seat like being a couple of inches closer to the windshield would help him see through the torrents running down the glass.

Despite leaning forward, he didn’t see the lorry that swerved in front of us out of the slow lane until it was too late. All I remember is Dad yelling, Mum trying to grab the wheel, Tilly screaming and a great jarring screech of metal and smash of glass as the car flipped over like a toy.

Dad was killed instantly.

Mum died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.

Tilly was crushed beneath the overturned lorry, her legs shattered beyond repair.

The lorry driver emerged with a single scratch, a bead of blood tracing a line from his forehead down to his lips.

And me: somehow, my corner of the car escaped the lorry. I suffered some bruising, mild whiplash, and I pissed myself with terror. But physically I was all right.

The lucky one.

On Boxing Day, which we spent eating leftovers and staring at the TV in the traditional manner. I went on a bit about my money worries and my need to find more work, but Tilly appeared preoccupied. She kept drifting off and though she smiled when she was talking to me, a couple of times I caught her reflection and saw she was frowning, anxiety creasing her brow. But she denied that anything was wrong so I left it.

Shortly before I was due to leave, Tilly’s personal assistant, Rachel, arrived at her flat. Rachel was the woman who helped my sister do the things she couldn’t manage by herself, a person who helped her live an independent life. There had been times when I had wondered if that person should be me and had even volunteered. Tilly had point-blank refused, saying that it would ruin our relationship, that she wanted me to be her brother, not her carer. I was relieved in a guilty way.

Rachel rode a huge black and silver Harley Davison and, according to Tilly, treated it like her baby, taking it to conventions, spending every spare minute polishing and tinkering with it. She was tall with sharp cheekbones and short black hair. She looked a little like she should be the guitarist in an early-eighties all-girl rock band and had well-developed arm muscles, from lifting Tilly, that I was envious of.