Luke had come in to join her just as she finished drying the dishes. ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she’d said.

‘It was nothing.’ Luke moved closer, so he could watch Lenny cheering and skidding on his knees, jumper pulled up over his head.

‘It wasn’t.’ Lizzie’s voice was quiet and detached. Luke was too distracted to notice that the mood had changed until she added, ‘We don’t need your pity, or your charity.’

He’d turned to look at her then, surprise and hurt on his face. ‘I don’t think that at all. I bought him the boots because he needs a pair, and I wanted to do it.’ Luke had sounded nervous.

‘You should have asked me first. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to persuade him to give them back?’

‘Why would you give them back?’ Luke said slowly, trying to catch up. Two red spots had appeared on his high cheekbones.

‘It wasn’t your place to buy them.’ She looked at Lenny, sitting on the damp lawn, running his fingers over the boots in wonder. Greg’s ghost stood behind him in the shadows, watching her through the window. She shivered.

‘He’s happy, though, Lizzie,’ Luke had said, shrugging. He didn’t understand what the big deal was. ‘He deserves someone who will encourage him, buy him the gear.’

She’d whipped round then and hissed, ‘Don’t tell me what my son deserves. I know what’s best for him.’ Her hands had started shaking and tears had sprung to her eyes. She’d had to take a deep breath and dig her nails into her palms to calm herself.

Luke had been contrite, realization dawning. He’d touched her arm gently and said, ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.’

Lizzie sighed then, and all her anger had whooshed out, leaving her nothing but tired. ‘I overreacted. It’s hard … sometimes.’

‘You didn’t. I’m to blame, come here.’ He’d reached for her wrist and must have seen her flinch, but before she could turn away, remove his hand, he’d pulled up her sleeve and seen the mark, the perfect shape of a cigarette butt. The wound had mostly healed, but a spot in the middle was still damp and sticky.

‘Lizzie, what the fuck?’ Luke had said, staring at her wrist lying limply in his palm. The skin around the burn was pale. He’d studied it in silence, his cheeks getting redder and redder. Lizzie had shaken her head but said nothing and, in slow motion, he’d carefully eased her sleeve up higher, until he found the next, and the next. A constellation of pain. An atlas of her past.