I almost delete it, then nearly add a kiss, before eventually just hitting send.

Of course, this probably wouldn’t have happened had Mum been in. I called her first, stopped by her house. I needed to talk. I needed… something. To go round and share stories about him, to sit in his room, to avoid being alone. I tried her phone again this morning, conflicted with guilt about Michelle and worry for the fact that I went to bed without saying goodnight to Mum. We always talk before bed now, since he died. She said it gives her comfort. It does the same for me. Until these last few weeks anyway, when suddenly she’s started going absent without warning. Maybe I should be pleased she’s finding a way to cope, but I’m not. I just feel alone. And selfish.

I tuck my phone into my top pocket and grab our David’s tool bag – it’s hot to the touch. Like contraband. Like Michelle. I scale the steps leading up to Mrs Johnson’s 1960s semi in the leafy bit of Norton Lees. Before I get a chance to shake off my morning and knock on the side door, she’s opened it. Despite the smile on her face, her crossed arms and watch check confirm I’m running late. I’m already on the back foot.

‘I know, I know. I am sorry, Mrs J. The traffic was awful, I needed to pop down Heeley to pick up a few bits, the lads got me talking and—’

‘You’ve always got an excuse, haven’t you, Rhys Woods?’ She purses her bright red lips, but I detect a tiny smile too. One of those you get from someone who finds it impossible to really be cross with you. ‘You were the same as a kid. Do you remember when you lobbed that brick at our Paul’s head and you made summat up about it being too heavy and falling in the wrong direction?’ The sparkle in her eye undermines her crossed arms. ‘And how many times must I say this? I think we’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Sylv!’

She steps back just enough for me to squeeze past her. Sweet yet musky perfume launches itself up my nostrils in the same way it did back in the early nineties when I’d snog Zoe Owen round the back of the bike shed before geography. What was it they all wore? White Musk from The Body Shop, I seem to remember. I bought it for her for Valentine’s but she wouldn’t accept it. She was someone else’s girlfriend too. I’ve got form.

I head through the lounge and into her kitchen. ‘I’m eternally sorry for Paul’s stitches,’ I say. ‘The brick was heavy. I was six!’ I repeat the excuse I’ve always given for that particular childhood incident. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t possibly call you Sylv, Mrs J. You are a client, the wife of a man I dare not cross…’ Mr Johnson was the local Boxing Club trainer. A bit like Paulie from the Rocky films, only bigger. And tougher. And not quite as lyrical with his advice. ‘And you are my best friend’s mother. It’s not right. Now, can I make us both a cuppa before I set about your stopcock?’