‘You think the bit about the chaplain’s true?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘She says stuff like that all the time. Maybe she misheard him; maybe he didn’t say anything at all. I think she just has these crazy, negative ideas, and they get mixed up in her head with things that really happened.’

‘That’s gotta be pretty damn frightening.’

I nodded. That was Mum. Frightened to death. ‘It’s like her imagination is working against her all the time. She’s always looking for proof something’s wrong. And she always finds it.’

‘This can be a cruel world, Ollie,’ Sophia said, turning away from me and gazing into space. ‘I’m sure there’s plenty for her to misinterpret.’

‘She has good days too. And then she’s fun to be around. You’d like her.’

‘She’s your mum. Of course I’ll like her.’

I looked down at the little photo still stuck to my palm, now speckled with rain. I dared to stare right at Aunty Kaye. It was like her smile was aimed straight back at me. No aching hollow gaped in my chest as it always did when I saw a picture of her. I blotted the photo dry and tucked it away.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Sophia.

‘What for?’

‘For getting this stuff. For talking. You’re amazing.’

‘Shut up, Ollie.’

‘You are.’

‘Well, I think you’re incredible.’ Her top lip – smooth, wet, plump – rolled against mine as she said it.

I mirrored her movement, allowing my head to fall towards hers, our mouths touching.

He pupils swelled as if the brown of her eyes was disappearing into a sinkhole. ‘You only have to ask,’ she whispered. ‘We could go somewhere.’

It was the invitation I’d been imagining hearing from her every night for a week. In my fantasy – inspired by one of my more mainstream go-to dirty vids – I always envisaged myself leaning into her ear, uttering the clincher: Let me fuck you. Just the words were enough. I’d be unravelling the toilet roll with my free hand before my imagined scene had the opportunity to unfold any further.

But now it was too much. As much as about Sophia, I’d been fantasizing about being somebody different, myself. I knew the script, but stage fright kept my line undelivered.

‘Shit, you think I’m a slag, don’t you?’ she said.

It was a night for holding no secrets. A night for not having to excuse who I am. So I told her that I’d not been with a girl before. I even told her how I’d only had a proper kiss twice, both over a year ago.

She didn’t care. She didn’t laugh or dismiss me as a child. Actually, the truth seemed to somehow excite her.

‘When we do, we’ll make it special,’ was all she said.