I hear Trish gasp, and a long, sorrowful moan follows shortly after.

‘Our dead son,’ she says, muffled. John must be holding her close to him.

She’s crying hard, uncontrollably, giving me no choice but to rise.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. ‘Sorry.’

Darting into the bathroom, I lock the door and sit on the toilet, pushing the walls either side with my hands. Not a permanent fixture, Trish? Well, what about my electric toothbrush right there in the holder next to Jack’s withered cheap one? Or the fact that the hanging caddy in the shower contains salon-recommended shampoo and conditioner for bleached hair? And coconut butter body scrub, mango shower gel and three used – yes, used – Venus disposable razors because, oops, I just forget to throw them away? Does (I’m sorry, did) Jack look as if he ever used a fucking razor in his life? Did he? And tampons. Yeah, there’s a little box of opened tampons: clearly mine. Unless Jack went through a phase of using them for earplugs, or butt plugs, you know, something I wouldn’t know about. Like Florrie.

Who the fuck is Florrie?

I wash my face, brush my teeth. I can see Jack in the mirror, grinning over my shoulder.

‘It’s not funny,’ I say through a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘You’re not even there.’

Jack pretends to be offended, dropping his mouth open, splaying his hand across his heart.

‘Well, for a start, if you were here you’d tell your mum that we aren’t just shagging.’

Oh, he finds that hilarious. His jolly presence fills the whole bathroom. I struggle to lean over and spit into the sink, banging my forehead on the mirror.

‘Ouch!’ I turn around.

He’s gone.

I wipe my mouth on my arm and barge into the kitchen, annoyed at myself for …

I don’t even know why. I’m just annoyed.

John and Trish are both sitting at the breakfast bar, staring into mugs of instant coffee. At least I’m dressed. Sort of. I’m still wearing the floral dress with the button missing, and although it shouldn’t be an achievement, I’m wearing knickers, unlike yesterday’s parental meet and greet. I took my bra off though, somewhere between sleep and disbelief. The underwiring was digging in and it now lies on the coffee table on top of last Sunday’s Observer Food Monthly. I’d like to think that a pair of grieving parents wouldn’t notice something like a discarded bra, but it’s just the sort of thing Patricia Carmichael would spot and rant about, turning it into a political debate.

‘Morning,’ I manage.