I open my mouth, struggling to find words. I’d be stooping rather low if I make my mum out to be a liar, a fabricator here. Okay, so she’s definitely the latter, but not always. I think my silence has answered him, though.

‘You’re not?’ Si asks, his face dropping, the happy drama mask flipping to the sad.

‘Would you judge me if I did?’

Still sad, he shakes his head. ‘You need to do whatever makes you happy.’

‘Problem is, I don’t know the answer to that.’

‘So don’t be hasty.’ He leans into me. ‘Chloe, those kids need you.’

‘You’re too kind. But they don’t need me. They don’t even know me.’

‘Look, I’ve heard on the old grapevine that Laura – the woman you’re covering – isn’t coming back. She wants to be a full-time mum. So the position is likely to be up for grabs. You should.’

‘Grab it? Oh, I dunno. I’m so shit at me job.’

‘You’re not! You’re just not committed. Yet.’

I’d never thought of it like that. I’ve only ever covered for maternity leave – I’ve never been permanent. Lack of commitment has been a running theme throughout my life. It’s worked both ways. People, jobs, even hobbies: they’ve all given up on me as much as I’ve given up on them. Maybe Si’s right. Go where the work is. Listen to my head for once. My mum wouldn’t be the only one to remind me that listening to my heart hasn’t got me very far.

But going back to London means returning to the flat – to my life without Jack.

I thought I could escape all of that by coming home to Liverpool, but Jack’s absence rings like a loud bell wherever I go.

Malcolm appears, taps Si on the shoulder and hands him a glass of champagne. I lose his attention, which I’m grateful for. A booze-fuelled pep-talk wasn’t on my agenda for today, as sweet as Si’s intentions are. A moment alone, contemplating what to drink without the pressure to speak, is nice. I give Malcolm a little wave and browse the spirits section of the drinks menu.

Nothing’s ever serious with you, Chloe. Ever.

Maybe she had a point, my mum.

But what is serious, really? Why does life have to be ‘serious’? Because Jack getting killed was pretty fucking serious, in my opinion, and I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy. Serious – in the words of my seventeen-year-old self – sucks.