John stands. He’s still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. His tailored shorts and light blue shirt are now creased, and everything about him is off-colour. Trish elongates her neck, straightens her posture. If I hadn’t known that Jack’s mum was Patricia Carmichael, I mightn’t have recognised her. She isn’t wearing any makeup and her short, spiky hair hasn’t been styled. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt printed with a cassette tape across the chest. I know that t-shirt. It’s Jack’s. He bought it from Spitalfields market about a month ago. No – in fact, I bought it. The stall only accepted cash and he only had his card. I had a twenty quid note.

‘I’m Chloe,’ I say, avoiding eye contact with John and going straight for Trish.

Trish rolls her red, swollen eyes to John and raises one eyebrow. I give a little wave with my hand. Not intentionally, believe me. An abundance of questions dance around my mind, all of which John and Trish might have the answers to. Firstly: is this all real? Is Jack really dead? And how exactly did he die? What are the finer details, because are they sure, I mean absolutely sure, that he isn’t perhaps almost dead? Did somebody get it wrong? And why did Jack never mention me to them? Or did he, and they’ve forgotten; in the same way that John forgot my name?

‘We’re leaving shortly,’ Trish says.

‘There’s a lot to do,’ John says.

‘Help yourself to tea, coffee …’ Trish tells me.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

I don’t want to boil the kettle. It feels too much like intruding, pottering about behind them while they sip their own hot drinks. It’ll give off the wrong impression entirely if I open the fridge and pick at the grapes, the first thing I usually do in the morning. And if I go back to the sofa, I can’t go back to sleep or turn on the telly. So what should I do? Sit there with my hands on my lap awaiting instruction? In my own home?

The plays, now in a small pile beside the fruit bowl, are my saving grace. John knows they’re mine. I lean across, slide them towards me and God, I’m relieved to have something in my hands. Shit. I have to teach practical drama to Year Nine in a few hours. Am I expected to go to work today? Even if my boyfriend died yesterday? Auditions for the school musical are tomorrow. I have to be there. But that’s not right, is it? Or is it?

A breeze floats in from the back door, slightly ajar. Empty bottles of Peroni that need taking to the recycling bin shake, humming a gentle tune. They’ll still have Jack’s saliva around the rim.

‘Have you finished with that, Johnny?’ Trish asks.