I ring the doorbell of the new build. It’s four years old, so not exactly shiny new, but it always has that new smell, as if the paint never quite dried. Usually I’m armed with Prosecco, olives and crisps, ready for a night of board games that end dancing on the kitchen table to the Spice Girls. Today, however, it’s just me and my Thailand clothes.

‘Sis!’ Kit beams as he opens the door.

Throwing his arms around my neck, he plants a smacker on my cheek. It’s comforting that he’s barefoot, wearing shorts and an old Everton football shirt, the same attire he’s worn his whole life on lazy Saturdays. He swoops me up in what I’ve always called a ‘princess carry’, something he’s done for the best part of thirty years despite being both younger and smaller than me. ‘Gareth! Come and get Chloe’s suitcase, will you?’

I’m swept into their home and accidentally kick a topless Gareth in the head in the hallway. Kit’s fault, obviously. He chucks me onto the sofa and their pug, Mabel, jumps onto my lap and licks my hand. Kit chases Mabel into her basket under the stairs as I sink into the soft black cushions. The living room is all tones of grey. Splashes of bold colour spring from three similar framed posters promoting an annual music festival called Sonic on Sea. Gareth’s a graphic designer.

‘Coffee?’ Kit asks. ‘We’ve got a Nespresso, thanks to Gareth’s ma.’

I decline, feeling jittery enough. Kit offers me a range of teas from herbal to builder’s; Gareth suggests a glass of cold elderflower. I go with that. Kit’s unzipped my suitcase and found some pink slouch socks. He pulls my Converse off my feet without undoing the laces and chucks them into the hall, then slips my socks onto my feet. It’s one of those rainy summer days where you stay in wearing a hoody and catch up on crappy telly.

‘I hope these are clean?’ he asks, nodding at the socks, then at his fluffy white rug.

They are.

The downstairs of Kit and Gareth’s house is always spotless. Even after a gathering, one of them is up at the crack of dawn to Dyson the spilt nibbles and take out empty bottles to the recycling. Smoking is permitted, but only on the decking in the back garden using an ashtray. The upstairs, however, is another story. They eat pizza in bed hungover on Sundays and only change their bed sheets every other month. Kit’s promised my mum they’re working on it.

Gareth hands me a tall glass filled with ice and elderflower.

‘I’m so sorry about Jack, Chloe,’ he says, although there’s no need. He sent me some lovely texts when it happened. ‘And I’m so sorry Thailand didn’t work out for you.’