Speaking of food – my mum made my favourite tea last night; her homemade fish pie. Later, about an hour after I’d gone to bed, she barged her way into my bedroom, knowing I’d still be awake. She planted a loud, heavy kiss on my forehead and said, ‘Love you,’ in the same way she’d say ‘Get up’ if I was having a lie-in. It’s been less than a week since our Kit’s wedding and neither of us has brought up that conversation in the toilets. I would’ve been keen to talk about it and get to the root of our problem, if my mum wasn’t Sue Roscoe. Women like Sue are of a certain ilk, you see: a generation who seem outspoken, but can’t express what’s truly going on inwardly. It comes out wrong. It’s frowned upon. It’s too deep. It’s indulgent. It gets in the way of practical things like getting the tea on the table for six o’clock or watching Corrie to unwind. She’d rather just say ‘Love you’. And at the very least with that, she means it.

Si still hasn’t checked his messages.

I message Fergus.

Hiya! Just checking you’ll be home in 30 min or so? I’m on my way to yours. Ok?

I don’t mind if Beth goes straight to bed when she comes back from West Hampstead. I just need their guest room and it’s always there whenever I need it. Beth’s words, not mine.

Fergus replies.

Aye. Almost home.

It’s lashing down when I emerge from the tube station. Summer’s on its last legs. My denim jacket gets soaked and sticks to my neck, my back, my elbows. When Fergus answers the door, I run inside and slip off my Converse, leaving them in the hallway with my suitcase, and hang my jacket to dry on the coat rack.

‘Get the kettle on,’ I say. ‘I bought some biscuits from M&S. I won’t tell Beth.’

He obeys my orders with a huff and I chuckle. He’s so easy to wind up.

I crack out the biscuits and Fergus opens them, taking two and devouring them like a monster. The crunching echoes around the kitchen and crumbs fall onto his rather baggy t-shirt – it’s unlike the usual muscle-hugging ones I’m used to seeing him wear. The kettle boils and he pours hot water into two mugs.

‘Teabags?’ I remind him.

‘Uh? Oh. Yeah.’

He finds a box of green tea in the cupboard. Drops a bag into each mug.

‘Milk?’ he asks.

‘With green tea?’

‘Sorry.’

‘You okay?’

Fergus presses his hands into the kitchen table and hangs his head down. The veins on his arms pop through his skin and he releases an animalistic growl. I was not expecting that.

‘Go on, then,’ he says, standing upright quite abruptly. ‘Hit me.’

‘Hit you with what?’