Inside the hall, a piece of paper stuck to the banister with Sellotape has Welcome Home Chloe written in felt-tip pen. Mum probably found the pen in a cupboard in my old room. This confirms that the single blue balloon isn’t left over from a party, but is, in fact, for me.

‘I didn’t wanna make a big fuss,’ my mum says.

‘You didn’t need to make any fuss, Mum.’

‘Now, go on. Up the stairs, get ready, love. We’re leaving in an hour and they don’t wait for latecomers in The Pheasant, you know. We’ll lose the table if we don’t get there on time,’ my mum says. This is a fabrication conceived entirely in her own head.

‘I’m not coming.’

‘You bloody well are.’

‘Kit’s not.’

‘Kit’s busy.’

‘No, he’s not. He’s eating pizza in bed with Gareth.’

‘He’s got a wedding to plan.’

‘It’s all planned.’

‘Are you going to be this difficult every day, Chloe, or just today?’

My dad comes in and shuts the door. He does a stupid dance in the hall and sings about Tilly Mint coming home to the tune of the ‘Three Lions’ song. My nan appears from the living room, all five foot nothing of her, seething. She’s had her hair set this morning, I can tell from the waft of lacquer.

‘Less of the singing, Bernie,’ she says. ‘If anyone’s gonna sing around here, it’s Chloe.’

My nan thinks I’m a brilliant singer, although she hasn’t heard me sing anything since I was eight. Every year, she tells me to go on X Factor. Every year, I have to come up with a fresh excuse as to why this will never, ever, ever happen. I get a flash of singing in Hoi An, Justin on the guitar. No. Go away.

‘Chloe’s not coming The Pheasant with us,’ my mum says slowly, as if I’m a toddler and she’s attempting reverse psychology.

‘The Pheasant? What we going all the way there for?’ my nan asks.

‘Family meal,’ my mum protests. ‘It’s Sunday.’

‘Just go to Tesco and get a cooked chicken,’ my nan suggests.

‘We’re going The Pheasant.’

‘Well, Chloe’s not.’

‘She is.’

‘I don’t wanna go The Pheasant,’ my nan states, hands on hips. ‘Bernie, go and get a cooked chicken.’

‘From Tesco?’ my dad asks.

My mum unsticks my welcome home banner and starts fanning herself with it.

‘I’ve told Carol we’d meet her there,’ she says.

‘Carol’s not family,’ I remind her.

‘She’s been a fabulous support since … you know.’

‘No, Mum. Since what?’

‘Since Jack died,’ my mum whispers.

I roll my eyes, start heading up the stairs.

‘I thought we weren’t mentioning Jack?’ my nan asks.