‘Oh, “boom”, yourself!’ I say, picking up a loose tangerine from the breakfast bar and chucking it at his head. I’d like to say this was a kneejerk reaction to being shot, but maybe it was loaded with intention. Definitely maybe. Freddie breaks out into a surprised smile. He likes me challenging him. I get the feeling he rambles on like this often and perhaps nobody pulls him up on it. Trish probably thinks it’s brilliant! Expressive! A stroke of genius! To me, it’s plain irritating and my mum would give him a smack across the head and tell him to take a cold shower.

‘What’s there to understand?’ Freddie asks, picking up the tangerine and holding it in his palm, examining it for damages. ‘You read the papers. You were living on this road, for God’s sake. Did you see it? Hear it? Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t understand. Can’t you give me some answers?’

My head is hurting. I think of that little emoji with the exploding brain.

‘I didn’t read the papers,’ I admit.

A silence overcomes us. The pause lasts longer than I’d prefer. A bus drives past and the windows rattle. Freddie jumps up and the cushion he was leaning against falls to the floor. He picks it up and drop-kicks it carelessly, knocking the telly a little and causing a stray coaster to slip onto the carpet. With a grunt, he exits the room. I hear him thrashing around the bedroom, drawers opening and closing, zippers zipping.

I gaze at the ground in despair, unsure of what to do with myself.

The carpet is new. Cream, like before, but fluffy and immaculate, not a stain in sight. Now that I see it, I smell it; the rubbery newness. I want to take off my Converse and my socks, allow my feet to melt into the marshmallow of the soft bristles. I’m also paranoid that if there’s a single mark present, it will be my fault. An effervescence grabs my attention and I see the bolognese bubbling over. I run to its rescue and turn the hob off.

‘Help yourself,’ Freddie says. I whip around and he’s leaning against the door frame, a North Face bag weighing down one shoulder. He points to the bolognese. ‘It’s the family recipe, but I made it with Quorn. I’m a vegetarian.’

‘Okay …’ I realise the Quorn has contributed to the overall unfamiliar smell.

‘I never read the papers,’ he tells me, lowering his bag to the floor. He speaks slowly, calmly, taking deep breaths between sentences. ‘I mean, I wasn’t living in London then, so I didn’t have access to the Metro. It was in our local paper, too. I refused to read it.’

I nod. He must know I understand.