It was like driving through a film set: thatched cottages; shops called ‘Ye Olde’ something; a far cry from the identical three-bed semis and shopping precincts I was used to growing up. I spotted a theatre currently home to a touring production of Blithe Spirit. A lot of charity shops.

I park on the road – there’s ample space, this being a quiet road with just a few houses, all differing in design and era – and decide to leave Jack’s things in the car for now. I can’t carry everything in one go.

I’m about to release the latch on the front gate when my phone rings, the piercing tone spoiling the idyllic surroundings. Fiddling with the car key, I unlock the car and sit back behind the steering wheel. It’s my mum.

‘Happy birthday!’ she shouts, my dad echoing the words closely behind.

‘Thank you – but remember, I’m putting me birthday on hold this year,’ I remind them.

‘Did your cards arrive?’

‘Mum, I just said—’

‘I know what you said but I can’t not send me daughter a card on her birthday, can I?’

‘I’ll check when I get back. Just out at the moment.’

‘Oh my God! Chloe! You’re there, aren’t you? Bernie? She’s there!’ And my mum lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Patricia Carmichael’s house.’

‘Just got here, so I should go—’

‘Oh I can’t believe it, love. I just can’t believe you’re there. In the countryside. Patricia Carmichael’s house. What’s it like? Is it double-fronted? Bet it’s double-fronted. And is there an annexe, you know, as if they built a pool and sauna once she got famous and the money started rolling in? Bet they never use the sauna. Who even enjoys a sauna? I’m sweating cobs just thinking about one.’

‘There’s no annexe, Mum. Not that I can see. It’s quite modern—’

‘Modern?! You mean like something on Grand Designs?’

‘No, more like our Kit and Gareth’s house but about five times bigger.’

‘You mean it’s got orange bricks?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh love, I wasn’t expecting that. And what a shame; no pool and sauna.’

‘Well, I’m not here for a spa weekend, Mum.’

‘Hold on, Chloe. Shush a sec. Your dad wants to say hiya …’

There’s a scuffle, muffled exchanges down my earpiece, a mild sort of tug-of-war; then I hear my dad’s singsong phone voice, as if he’s answering a call for Bernie Roscoe Taxis.

‘Alright Tilly Mint! How’s the birthday girl?’

‘I’m okay, Dad. But I should go—’