And I close my eyes, imagine Jack’s fingers stroking my shoulder, lightly. That’s what he did. That’s what he always did. When we watched the telly. In the pub. During pillow talk.

And I’m talking to myself again, thinking of him, imagining him …

STOP.

My sanity is saved by a dad approaching the play area, one little girl holding his hand and a smaller one on his shoulders. I better clear away before I look like the weirdo who hangs around swings. I’m far too old to act the moody adolescent, although my mum’d probably disagree.

When I rejoin my family, they’re in the depths of desserts.

‘I can’t say no to a sticky toffee pudding,’ my dad says, tucking in.

‘This tiramisu tastes nothing like tiramisu,’ my nan says.

The family on the next table have gone, mashed food embossed on the carpet beneath where they’d sat, a dollop of chocolate ice cream melting on a place mat. I’m sure they only had one child with them. Carol and my mum have moved on to cocktails. I had no idea The Pheasant served cocktails, but hey, stranger things have happened.

‘Where’ve you been?’ my mum demands.

‘Sue …’ my dad tries, but she shoots him a look.

‘I hope you didn’t sneak off to pay the bill,’ my nan says. ‘I’m getting this.’

My mum’s hand darts across the table. ‘No, me and Bernie are getting this.’

‘No, Sue. It’s my treat.’

‘But you don’t even like the tiramisu!’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m incapable of paying.’

‘Mother, put your purse away now.’

And so they go on, arguing. A standard occurrence at these occasions.

Although it’s familiar, it belongs to a Chloe Roscoe who I can’t be any more. It’s when I was seven, when I was thirteen, when I was twenty-two, it was just over a year ago when we came to a similar restaurant (one with a carvery still in operation) for what would’ve been my nan’s sixtieth wedding anniversary with my grandad. I want to get involved, tell my mum and my nan to shut up, have a sneaky laugh with my dad. I want them to get a move on so I can go and meet my friends … or phone the boy from school I fancy … or hit the pub … or just get back to my own place and watch the telly with that massive Dairy Milk sat in my fridge. But I’m changed. I don’t want to be. But I am.

Something stronger than a lime and soda in my hand would be much appreciated right now. I check my phone mindlessly, something to do. There’s a notification; a message request.

It’s from Justin.

No. No … I don’t want to remember. I want to peel my skin off.