The hissing chatter in the kitchen didn’t wake me up, though. I never truly slept: the events of yesterday pressed hard into my subconscious and wouldn’t let me drift off. But they think I’m asleep, John and Trish. They think I can’t hear them.

‘Did you know she was coming back?’ Trish is saying. Even in a whisper I’d recognise that biting tongue; that clipped, over-articulated, media-trained voice. You can almost hear her saliva singing.

John is grumbling and inarticulate.

‘Oh, Johnny, I can’t deal with this right now. If she’s got a key to let herself in whenever she fancies, how many more are there? How do we know Jack didn’t dish out keys to all his friends? All his girlfriends?’

I close my eyes tight like a child wishing to turn invisible.

‘Jack wouldn’t do that, love,’ John says. ‘Not in his nature.’

‘What isn’t? You’re forgetting what happened with Florrie!’

I open my eyes. Who the fuck is Florrie?

‘He was young,’ I hear John saying.

‘Don’t make excuses. He knew how to control himself, Johnny.’

‘Keep your voice down, love. She’s asleep.’

‘She has a name … What was it again?’

‘I can’t remember, love. Erm – Clare?’

‘Well, how do we know that Clare was really his girlfriend? It can’t have been serious, Johnny. Jack would’ve introduced us before shacking up with her.’

‘Would he?’

‘Don’t act as if I don’t know my own son, Johnny!’

Now this is great. Jack’s parents don’t want me here and I really need to wee. Obviously I’ll have to get up at some point. I can’t just stay on the sofa like a fat cat. But I don’t know – should I wait until after I’ve used the toilet to tell them that my name isn’t Clare? Or stand up and tell them right now that erm, sorry, but my name is not fucking Clare?

‘Did you see the suitcase, Johnny?’ Trish spits. ‘Doesn’t feel very serious, does it?’

She’s upped the volume slightly because the kettle is boiling and it would be a travesty for John not to hear her every word. Wouldn’t it?

‘What are you suggesting, love?’ John says. I imagine he’s rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, just how he did yesterday when we met.

‘That we tell her – kindly – to leave. I’m sure she won’t mind. We’ve got so much to do, so much to deal with, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to get out of here faster than even we’d appreciate. She only needs to zip up her bags – there’s nothing at all that suggests she’s a permanent fixture around here. Jack was probably just casually shagging her.’

‘Trish, please. Let’s not discuss our dead son’s sex life.’