‘You’re in no fit state to drive, young lady,’ she says firmly, still staring at me. ‘If you won’t let me call an ambulance, let me at least check you over. My son’s a doctor, so he’s taught me basic first aid. Come in. Your deliveries can wait for a few minutes, I’m sure.’

I’m still so shocked by her revelations that I barely notice as she gently takes my arm and leads me inside the flat. I follow her down a short corridor before turning into her sitting room, which I notice immediately is adorned with pictures of Luke. There he is in his graduation gear. Another picture shows him with a smiling woman by his side; I assume that’s his wife.

His wife. His pregnant wife.

Once again, I can feel the strength leaving my legs, but this time Luke’s mum is ready for me, and guides me backwards onto the sofa.

‘Just relax there while I fetch you some water and get my first-aid things,’ she tells me, before disappearing back into the corridor. I want nothing more than to get out of here, but my rebellious legs are refusing to move. Instead, I find myself studying the remainder of the family pictures, like a rubbernecker poring over the scene of a particularly nasty traffic accident. There are lots of pictures of Luke at various stages of his life, but there are also a similar number of another person, who has enough similarities to Luke that he can only be a brother. Another lie, another punch to the gut. ‘Here you are,’ Luke’s mum says to me as she comes back into the room, placing a glass of water on a leather coaster on the immaculately polished antique table next to the sofa. ‘Sip it, don’t gulp it.’

I pick up the glass carefully, but still nearly drop it because my hands are slippery with sweat. I take a tentative sip; it’s cold and refreshing, and the urge to gulp it straight down is strong.

‘Right,’ Luke’s mum continues. ‘Let’s start with the basics. My name is Richenda, and you are?’

‘Tilly,’ I mumble. Mike and I never considered this possibility, and my brain has pretty much shut down so I can’t conjure up a plausible Eastern European name.

‘Tilly,’ she repeats thoughtfully. ‘Not a common name from your part of the world. OK, I think we can assume that you’re conscious and breathing, so that’s a good start. Do you have any pains anywhere? In your chest, for example, or down your arm?’

She’s checking to see if I’m having a heart attack. If I wasn’t so completely dumbstruck, I’d be impressed.

‘No,’ I tell her quietly.

‘Good. Now, can you smile for me, please?’