He obliges, oozing reluctance. He lies flat down on the sheepskin rug beside John’s chair and starts to scroll through his phone. John, who’s been staring out of the window, turns his head towards us and gives a sleepy, closed-mouth smile to his wife. Trish returns it with a thumbs up.

‘Follow me, Chloe,’ she says. ‘Coffee?’

41

I’d rather not stay. I don’t see the point. I feel in the way, like I’ve brought back one bag too many. Trish is aware of my hesitation.

‘Don’t tell me you only drink tea.’

‘Coffee’s great.’

The kitchen is dreamy. Right out of a magazine. It’s not lifeless like the hall or the sitting room. A few used mugs sit beside a half-full cafetière, the rich aroma of coffee shaking the room awake. A fresh baguette lies on a chopping board, half eaten, and crumbs are speckled onto the gleaming white island. Loose papers in a haphazard pile lie beside an open MacBook Air.

‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ I say, pointing at the wildflowers arranged in a basket on the table. Cornflower blues and sunny oranges poke out from the richest ruby reds; a gift, no doubt, as I can’t imagine anybody would buy this for themselves. They remind me of the bouquet Giles and Ingrid bought for me all those months ago: a flash of a memory. Did I put them on display? I seem to recall hiding them in a cupboard.

‘Take it when you leave,’ Trish says, her glasses now on the end of her nose as she closes down tabs on the MacBook and folds it shut. ‘I can’t bear flowers of any sort. Not indoors, anyway.’

‘Oh, me too.’

Trish dips her chin and stares at me from over the rim of her specs.