I sit up. No. I don’t want to relapse. I don’t want to fill my body with shit so I can deny the damage I’ve done.

Move on, Kerry said. That’s what she wants. If she won’t love me back, I can do the next best thing. Stop feeling sorry for myself and start over.

Chapter 33: Tim

25 July 2004

Is it better or worse to be in genteel surroundings when you shatter the illusions of someone you love?

Taking Mum to the village of Alfriston seemed like the right idea this morning. But now I’m less sure. None of the gift shops are accessible and it’s been raining so the riverside is too boggy to navigate. As I wheel her chair into a cafe, the doilies and the cake stands and the teapots hem me in so much I want to smash my way out of here.

‘Are you sure it’s all home-made?’ she demands of the poor waitress. ‘Because this menu looks far too big for that to be probable.’

I struggle to find small talk while we wait for our lunch, knowing time is running out. I’m certain Kerry will come home from her triathlon and tell me it’s definitely over. I’d offered to go with her, but she insisted she needed time to do some serious thinking. And while I’m gone, please talk to your mum. Whatever we end up doing, the wedding is not going to happen next year. If she realizes we’ve been lying, she’ll never forgive us.

But what will I tell her?

You can tell her as much or as little as you want.

Our jacket potatoes arrive, the size of cannonballs, and Mum stares disdainfully at her plate.

‘Looks nice, doesn’t it?’ I say, for the waitress’s sake. The first forkful burns my throat and tongue as I swallow. A laryngopharyngeal thermal injury, but not bad enough to get me out of telling her the truth.

‘Eyes are bigger than your stomach, Tim!’ Mum says, as she has for as long as I can remember.

I can’t put it off any longer. ‘Mum, I’ve got something to tell you, and I’m sorry because I don’t want to upset you.’

Her face doesn’t change but she seems to lose another inch of height in her chair.

‘It’s about the wedding.’ I have rehearsed these words over and over in my head. Saying them out loud is different. ‘Kerry and me, we’ve decided to postpone it.’

It’s as if she’s ageing in front of me. Her sharp blue eyes fade to grey and the lines around her eyes deepen.

‘Mum, did you hear me? We’ve postponed it. Kerry has got most of the money back, or a credit note in the case of the hotel . . .’

‘Is it another woman? Have you been unfaithful?’

‘Mum!’