‘And besides, I want to use his room for a nail salon. I’ve got ladies waiting for me to get my own place. Your Mum could come see me, you know. Give herself a little pampering.’ Mrs J’s tone changes, just like everyone’s does when they ask after Mum now. ‘How is she?’ she asks, head cocked to one side.

‘Okay. Mostly. You know… Mind you, I’ve not spoken to her since yesterday morning so your guess is as good as mine.’ I heft the tool bag on my shoulder, irritated.

‘Ahh, poor love.’ She sips at her tea. ‘It must have been such a shock,’ she says gently, apparently not hearing the grief cliché klaxon. ‘I said to Paul, I said I don’t know how I’d cope if—’

‘Yeah, no, I dunno,’ I interrupt.

I blame the internet. It tells people to say something. To not ignore the difficult conversation when someone dies. But people stop reading at that point, glossing over the bits that suggest you avoid certain responses because those in the throes of grief might find it trite instead of caring.

‘I suppose he must be at peace now,’ she says, nodding gently, and I bite my tongue. That’s the one that bugs me the most. He died angry and sad and rejected by the one person he needed most. Where’s the peace in that?

‘Give her my love when you speak to her, won’t you?’

‘Yup, will do.’ Because that’s the other thing people do: they consider how the parent might feel, but presume the sibling will step up and take charge of the situation. Become the nominated adult. They forget that at the same time my mother’s son killed himself, I lost my brother. ‘I’d better get on,’ I say, looking around at nothing in particular just to avoid eye contact. I avoid talking about my brother at the best of times, never mind now, when his girlfriend’s perfume lingers on my T-shirt. ‘Do you need to run any water before I start?’

‘No, love. I’m nipping out to the shops, I’ll be back in half an hour or so. Will you still be here at lunchtime? I can pick up a tuna pasta salad from the Co-op if you like? Gotta look after that bod of yours, haven’t we!’

‘I’ve got a pack-up,’ I lie. ‘Cheese and salad cream cob.’ I back out of the kitchen, retreating to the relative safety of their avocado bathroom.

Slinging my stuff down, I check my phone. No message. No number. So not Mum then. Where is she? Where was she last night when I swung by? Why, when I need her, is she suddenly so distant?

Chapter Three

KAT

I put my hair up in a clip, away from my face, wipe my eyes and fumble my glasses back on. I pick out a compact mirror from the drawer to check if I look okay, or if the glasses look as ridiculous as they feel. Maybe it’s the office wobble I’m having, more than the glasses. These piles of meeting notes, reports, emails and the sudden, overwhelming level of responsibility is probably the thing that tipped me over the edge this time. It was definitely not the cryptic Facebook status Daniel just posted.