‘Look. Cathy. What do you want from me?’ Her mother put her wine glass down on the table, and Cathy couldn’t help noticing her fingers were trembling.

‘What do I want? What do you think I want?’ Cathy gritted her teeth, forced herself to slow down. None of this was going how she’d expected. ‘I want some idea why. I wanted to know who you were, and why you didn’t want me. I guess that’s the heart of it.’

For a minute or so there was a silence between them. The television in the corner of the pub was playing a news report, black bars of subtitles flicking up and away before it was possible to make sense of them. The radio was playing some old Eighties song that Cathy couldn’t quite place.

‘Cathy …’ Her mother took a deep, slightly shaky breath. ‘I don’t have the answers for you, I’m afraid. When I had you, I was young. Too young. And I was … unwell. I barely knew what I was doing back then, and it’s not a time in my life I like to even think about, let alone talk about. And especially to a stranger. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that’s who you are to me.’

‘What about my real father? Are you still with him? Can you tell me who that is?’

Jane Bailey looked down at her hands, her sallow cheeks suddenly flushed with colour.

‘No, I can’t tell you that. I don’t know. Listen, this isn’t a good idea for either of us, all right? I think it’s best if—’

‘You have grandchildren! Don’t you even want to know about them?’ Cathy pulled her phone out and with a couple of presses summoned pictures of Harry and Rosie – she passed it across the table and then when Jane didn’t take it, flicked through the pictures herself. There were images of Harry’s third birthday, when he’d had a cake in the shape of a truck; photos of Rosie at the park, her wellies splattered with mud. She came to baby photos of the both of them, looking nearly identical with their tiny screwed-up pink faces. At these Jane looked pained. She reached behind her and picked up her coat.

‘What are you—?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Don’t contact me again.’ She shrugged on her coat in a series of jerky movements, and picked up her handbag. ‘I mean it. Finish off the wine if you like, it’s paid for.’

With that she was gone.