‘There’s no need,’ I tell her, doing my best to disguise my relief that Mr Gould is clearly busy elsewhere and won’t be disrupting today’s schedule. ‘But OK, you know, if you think I should?’

She looks pleased with herself. ‘I’d be happier.’

I reach across the bed for my new uniform.

She lowers her glasses until they’re dangling from the cord round her neck. ‘How’s Mum at the moment, Ollie?’

‘Really well,’ I shoot back.

‘And nothing’s changed at home recently?’ I shake my head.

‘Nothing at all? No upheavals, bereavements, that sort of thing?’

For a split second, I think of Aunty Kaye. I bury the image. This time, I do lie twice. I need her to leave. ‘Nothing. Nothing I can think of.’

She gives that sad smile of hers again.

‘Thank you,’ I say. It slips out firmer than I intended. ‘For the tea, the clothes and – you know – having a word.’

‘Right.’ She seems a little confused.

I unfold the clearly oversized trousers. Grappling to keep the towel round me with one hand, I try to shuffle my feet into them, desperate for Mrs Pelosi to take the hint.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to get yourself changed, sweetie,’ she says. ‘Stay here as long as you need.’

The Past’s Future

Last August

I’ve heard it said that you can’t always trust your memory; that when you recall something all you’re actually recalling is the last time you remembered it, not the event itself. Each time you revisit something, you introduce another opportunity for errors to sneak in. It’s like a game of Chinese whispers in your own head.

When I think now about last summer, I’m certain I knew something was wrong. That everything was going to change. I could feel it. But I couldn’t possibly have known.

Every year, I would spend the first week of August in Brighton with Aunty Kaye. Last year, I decided that I was going to cycle the sixty miles down there instead of getting a ride with Gramps. There was a stand-off between me and him until we reached a compromise – he would drive me and my mountain bike halfway and I’d ride the rest. So, on a muggy Friday lunchtime, I was deposited at some services in a place called Pease Pottage. We shared a pot of tea there, after which he pressed a hundred quid in twenties into my palm and scrunched my fist closed round them. ‘Don’t let Kaye pay for everything,’ he told me, before leaving me to it and heading back towards London.