My phone rings in my pocket. The initial relief at hearing it is quickly replaced with frustration when I remember I set Mum up with a new tone so I wouldn’t miss her calls. It’s not her tone. I can’t answer if it’s Michelle. Not in front of Mrs J.

‘I’ll make the tea, you answer that. It could be work. Or one of your ladies trying to track you down. A woman hates not knowing where her man is, Rhys!’ She taps manicured nails, which match her lips, on the Italian-style marble-esque worktop. Towards the end, David hated coming here. I thought it would help, the flirting, the interaction, but he ran out of patience for it. Called her a sad old cougar – though not to her face, thankfully. He got nasty like that, towards the end. He was bitter. Michelle said the same last night, said though he was around, he’d ‘gone’ long before he finally…

‘Sugar?’ Mrs J asks, interrupting my regular daydream, the one in which I see my brother’s face for the next to last time, when maybe I could have said or done something different. When the phrase ‘pull yourself together’ should never have left my mouth.

‘No, thanks.’ I shake off the thought. ‘And for the record, I am nobody’s man, Mrs J, except for my own. And I’m happy to keep it that way, thank you very much.’

‘Ahh, girls must be breaking their hearts over you – that height, those tanned muscles. Do you still play rugby, Rhys?’ The heat of something prickles up my neck. Embarrassment? Guilt? Annoyance? ‘And those eyes! I’m not sure if you’re asking for a bone or inviting me to bed!’ she cackles, ignoring how inappropriate her banter is.

As last night’s alcohol dissipates, so too does last night’s bolshiness, the arrogance to flirt with someone I shouldn’t. ‘Mrs J!’ I groan, moving out of reach. Flirting with a client is not necessarily unknown – I’m a thirty-nine-year-old single man – but I’m all out of it this morning.

‘So, how many’ve you got on the go these days?’ she grins, reaching into her cupboard, teetering on one foot as she ignores the mugs right in front of her and opts for china cups from the top shelf. ‘Oops,’ she giggles, pulling her top back down over her waist. I pretend I haven’t noticed. ‘My Paul says you’ve a whole line of ’em chasing after you, you lucky boy. Any of them marriage material? You’ll have to settle down eventually, you know! Do us a favour, love, pass the rejects over? I wouldn’t mind getting our Paul back out of the house and on with his life now. Kissing forty is no age to be at home with your parents.’

Her observation is a little unfair. My best mate’s marriage broke down last year, and after a few weeks on my couch, he really had nowhere else to go, much to his frustration. I let the deconstruction of our love lives wash over me as she hands over a drink.