‘Carol,’ my mum says. ‘I did tell you who Jack’s mum is, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah, the one who went in the jungle last year?’

My dad corrects her. ‘No. Not her. The other one.’

‘Oh! I thought she was the one who went in the jungle.’

A waitress rescues my dad from hovering with my nan’s coat, offering to hang it up, and he calls her a cracker. She brings over huge menus, two-foot tall and double sided. My nan says ‘bloody hell’ rather than thanks. A long conversation follows about what everybody’s going to order. Carol could easily eat four, maybe five things off the menu; my mum’s disgusted at the price of the Sunday roasts. My nan mentions chicken again, from Tesco, and my dad says he’s going to the bar to order a pint. My mum tells him to sit down, he’s driving, but I offer to drive home and my mum tells him to order her and Carol a double gin and tonic each.

‘Is everybody getting a starter?’ Carol asks.

‘No,’ my nan answers for us all.

As it turns out, we all order the fish and chips.

‘You can’t go wrong with fish and chips, can you, my love?’ my dad tells the waitress.

Carol nips out for a ciggie.

‘So are you gonna get one of those flats – sorry, apartments – in town again, like you had before you moved to London?’ my dad asks.

‘She can live with us as long as she likes, Bernie,’ my mum snaps.

‘Oh, I know that love. Goes without saying.’

‘I mean, I’ve never known a thirty-six-year-old woman to still live at home, but hey-ho.’

‘I have,’ my nan says. ‘Marjorie Hughes. You know, helps in the church. Never married until she was fifty-two. You’ve got plenty of time, Chloe.’

‘Thanks, Nan.’

‘You gonna contact the local schools?’ my mum asks me, clearly itching for one of Carol’s ciggies. ‘For work?’

‘Not sure yet.’

‘Bernie. Speak to her.’

My dad shifts in his seat. ‘Listen here, Tilly Mint. Your mum’s only trying to help.’

I know what would’ve helped. A home-cooked roast; proper roasties, cauliflower cheese, stuffing, the lot. Even frozen Yorkshires. I could’ve eaten it in my pyjamas, in silence. My body aches for my bed – my bed – the one where I can hide and be stroppy and only nip downstairs for peanut butter on toast. Maybe even get the peanut butter on toast made for me and brought up on a tray with a glass of fresh orange and a KitKat.

‘I might quit teaching,’ I throw out there.

‘WHY?’ my mum shouts, then remembers herself and hisses. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. Because I don’t.