If Jack was alive, my mum would never have brought him here. She’d be showing off, insisting we ate out in town with a view of the Liver Birds or right on the waterfront. She wouldn’t be quizzing me about my future because she’d see it so clearly, like a well-constructed PowerPoint presentation. Jack would do most of the talking, which would please my dad. He’s such a good listener, my dad; loves an anecdote, a childhood memory. Jack’s hand would be on my back as he’d confidently spill the beans on his public-school life, his parents, his gap year. My mum would gloat at how posh all that sounded. He’d give excellent eye contact, too: engage directly with my mum, my dad and my nan, never forgetting about me either. My nan would be a bit wary of him, but that’s okay. I’d be concerned if she wasn’t wary about him …

Wait.

Jack never put his hand on my back; that wasn’t one of his things. I don’t think.

I let my toes touch the ground, do a little pitter-patter to bring the swing to a stop.

Oh God.

I can’t remember.

Would Jack have told those stories? Would he be the life and soul around his girlfriend’s family? Honestly, I don’t know. Best qualities don’t always shine around parents, no matter how old you are. I’m a brilliant example of that, turning into a people-pleasing mush around Patricia Carmichael and into a hormonal teenager around my own.

‘Your brother, Freddie …’ I think.

I met him with Jack at a pub on The Strand. Freddie didn’t stay long, he had other plans. Jack was questioning him; who was he meeting, where was he going, did he need to lend any money. I stood there with a glass of house white and ate the entire packet of Scampi Fries that Freddie had opened out onto the bar for us to share. There was no three-way conversation. I’d been disappointed that my introduction wasn’t more specific than, ‘This is Chloe,’ but Jack was anxious. He brushed it off once Freddie left, saying, ‘Just like to look out for him.’

Was Jack anxious around his whole family? Or just his little brother?

How well did I really know my boyfriend? It’s only been – what – seven weeks, and I’m starting to forget. And yet, that car park, right there, reminds me of taxis picking me and Beth up after a Friday night shift, taking us straight into town. We’d get changed in The Pheasant’s loos, slap on metallic eyeshadow and wear anything with a Lipsy label, leaving our uniforms behind in the wholesale condiments cupboard. Crystal-clear memories. I can almost smell the original Jean Paul Gaultier that Beth would drown us in.

‘My shoulder!’ I say.