I expect the display to read KERRY CALLING but it says UNKNOWN NUMBER and the ringtone goes right through me, like a mini shock.

My mother frowns.

‘Probably Ant,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I won’t be a minute.’

I go into the hall. It’s dark outside but lights twinkle on the ten-foot tree.

‘Hello, is that Mr Joel Greenaway?’ A woman’s voice: stiff, officious.

‘Yes.’

‘This is the hospital here.’

Blood rushes to my head. My heart thumps. My parents are safe, so it has to be Kerry. ‘What’s the matter? Tell me!’

In the background, I hear gulls and waves. It doesn’t sound like a hospital.

‘Ha, Joel, had you going there!’ The laugh that follows is familiar and frightening.

‘Zoë? Are you ill? Is this a wind-up?’

‘No, I’m not ill. I’m happy, happy, happy.’

‘You’re on something.’

‘I’m on . . . love. And I’ve got some amazing Christmas news for you. Guess what? You’re a daddy!’

The fairy lights are dazzlingly bright on the tree and for a moment I can’t breathe. ‘Look, Zoë, I know this time of year must be hard for you, but please don’t make sick jokes like that.’

She laughs again. ‘Not a joke. Who’s the daddy? You’re the daddy! He’s a month early and he’s got your eyes. But hopefully my heart, it’s beating like a good ’un. Not that you ever had a heart anyway . . .’

I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

‘Don’t you want to say congratulations?’

‘You’re serious?’ My voice comes out as a whisper.

‘Yes. Your son was born on December twenty-third. Mother and baby doing well. Or at least, we’re both alive.’

‘So you didn’t . . .’

‘Get rid of it? No. Went into the clinic, but had second thoughts when they gave me the consent form.’

My brain can’t process it. I am a father. ‘He’s . . . OK? Genuinely?’ Not that it means anything. I was OK for seventeen years before the night my whole life ploughed off course.

‘Cries a lot. That’s babies for you.’

‘Are you in hospital? You sound high.’

‘Celebrating.’ But her voice cracks a little.

‘Are you with him? Four weeks early; that’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘You don’t get to pin this on me, you arsehole. Yeah, so I was using, but can you blame me, after what you said?’

I sit down on the marble tread staircase, close my eyes. ‘The baby was born addicted.’ It’s not a question.

The squawking of the gulls is joined by a soft whimpering. I recognize the pitiful sound Zoë makes when she is crying.

‘Zoë, are you in Brighton?’

‘No.’

‘Where are you, then? I can come and get you.’