He hands me a boiling hot mug, teabag still in the water and enough milk for a bowl of cereal. My brother has many talents and tea-making ain’t one of them. I’m reminded of nine-year-old Kit making us Roscoes a cuppa for the first time. It was Mother’s Day. Bet my mum regrets biting her tongue, pretending it was the best tea she’d ever had. But I love this terrible cuppa. It’s consistent, and that’s just what I need.

I sip. ‘Can we watch Three Men and a Little Lady now?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

24

My dad insisted on picking me up from our Kit’s this morning. I can’t tell you how excited I am about the fact that it’s Sunday, and I’m home; my mum will be cooking a roast.

‘Alright, Tilly Mint,’ he sings through the open window of his taxi.

‘Not working today?’ I ask, bending down to give him a kiss before hurling my suitcase into the boot. To avoid paying someone else double time, my dad always likes to work Sundays.

‘I started early. You’re me last pick-up of the day.’

‘Well, I hope you’re not charging me, Dad.’

‘Never in a million years, my love. Your mum’s booked a table at The Pheasant.’

‘Who for?’ I ask, pulling the seatbelt across me.

‘Who’d you think? Us.’

No. I’m not going to The Pheasant. It’s one of those pubs owned by a brewery chain, does a carvery, that sort of thing. Me and Beth used to work there at weekends during sixth form, and no. Not today. I’m going home, having a long bath and watching Netflix on my laptop in bed. My dad can grab me something from the chippy if my mum won’t cook.

‘Kit never mentioned anything about going for a meal,’ I say.

‘Kit’s not coming,’ my dad says.

‘Neither am I.’

‘You have to, my love. Your mum’s invited your nan.’

We pull up outside the house I grew up in. There’s a single balloon on the front door, a plain blue one, visible behind the glass porch. The big glass porch. Back in the eighties, lots of families on our street got a porch built. The houses are all identical three-bedroom semis, a little lawn in the front and a nice square garden in the back. We live on the corner, meaning once my dad’s taxi business started doing alright, instead of moving to a slightly bigger house, my mum and dad just kept building on the one they already had. We’ve had the kitchen extended and a roof conversion, too, but it was the porch that came first. It resembles a conservatory, although don’t get me started on the actual conservatory. It almost caused a divorce. Bird-poo-gate is still a touchy subject to this day.

‘Welcome home!’ my mum shouts from the porch.