‘Everyone! Ready to leave in an hour!’ my mum shouts, then takes a breath, lowering her voice in fear of the neighbours hearing. ‘I won’t say it again.’

My dad tells her he’s ready, but she tells him to change his jeans. My nan asks him to put the Corrie omnibus on for her and my mum tells him to do that first and change his jeans straight after. I drop down onto my old bed, head-first into an explosion of gingham. Any second now, my mum will barge in and tell me to get my shoes off the duvet, it’s not a door mat. And I’ll give her the finger as she walks away.

I feel like the old me. Well, the seventeen-year-old me anyway.

*

The Pheasant is on the outskirts of town, close to the motorway. If you get a seat by the right window, you get a view of nice green fields with the odd horse, otherwise, it’s a grey mass of traffic around Junction 7.

‘I haven’t been here since dropping you off for work all those years ago,’ my dad says, turning into a free parking space.

‘Such a liar, Bernie,’ my mum accuses. ‘We came here for our Val’s fortieth.’

‘Mum, I was the waitress that served you,’ I say. ‘And you never tipped me.’

‘Bloody hell,’ my mum ponders. ‘Where does the time go?’

The brewery chain has changed since I worked here, no doubt more than once, but walking through the entrance doors really does drive home my mum’s words. Where does the time go? Yeah, the decor’s been updated, cool greys having replaced the nineties pink and turquoise, but it’s the same. I feel as though I could charge straight through the swinging door into the kitchen, hang up my jacket and apologise for running late, hoping the chef on starters winks at me. I always fancied him, even though he had a kid with another waitress.

I message Beth.

I’m at The Pheasant!

We’re taken to our reserved table, where there are fields in view, but Tesco is also clear in the distance. Carol’s already waiting for us in another of her sequin tops. I can tell my mum disapproves, thinks it’s too much for a Sunday afternoon – unlike my jeggings and t-shirt, which isn’t enough. Carol breaks the news to us all that The Pheasant carvery no longer exists, but that the menu is extensive, with gluten-free options. My nan reminds us that we should’ve got a cooked chicken from Tesco.

‘Oh, Chloe,’ Carol says, coughing, clearing her throat. She holds out her arms and my mum pushes me into them. ‘Come here. That’s it, that’s it. I’m so sorry about your fella, what an absolute tragedy. Taken too soon.’

‘We’re not mentioning Jack,’ my nan says, shaking off her teal mac and handing it to my dad.