‘It comes from me mum. And me nan,’ I say, shaking my head at how abstractly I’m behaving. ‘Sorry – I mean, I think flowers are beautiful, to look at. Especially outside, like you mentioned. But I don’t like them in me own house, or flat. You see, me mum lost her dad when she was a little girl. When he died, neighbours kept buying me nan flowers. She’d leave them in the paper wrapping, slinging them on the kitchen table or by the phone in the hall, sometimes on the floor. Me nan’s a proper tough cookie but she couldn’t deal with the flowers, sort of like if she acknowledged them it’d cause her to wobble. She had no time for that. Tough as she was, though, she didn’t have the heart to tell people to stop, they were only doing their best, being kind. Anyway, it was me mum who’d pick the flowers up, put them in a vase. They didn’t have many vases – I mean, their house was dead small. So sometimes she cut the stems and put them in a tall glass or left them soaking in the sink. To this day, me mum won’t go near a florist. She hates the smell and what it reminds her of. Sad, dark days. I guess it rubbed off on me.’

‘Hmm.’ Trish goes to the sink, rinses a couple of mugs and pours us both a coffee. She removes her glasses and chain from around her neck. ‘Sounds like your mum and I have a lot in common after all.’

She lights a hob on the island cooker and takes a clean pan out of the dishwasher, heating it up with a generous splatter of oil.

‘Does your mum make eggy bread?’

‘No. She’s always on a diet.’

In the middle of beating two eggs with a fork, she suddenly stops what she’s doing to look through the open doorway. I follow her gaze. John has moved from his armchair and crossed the hall. There’s a distinct lack of background noise in this house: no telly blaring, no radio muttering, no buses hurtling past. I hear a door open, close and lock, and a minute later, a toilet flush. Trish is watching Freddie scroll through his phone. John unlocks the door and goes back to where he came from. Trish’s shoulders soften. She returns to beating the eggs.

‘Pills work for Johnny,’ she tells me, slowly, each word clipped. ‘But they don’t work for Freddie.’

She adds milk to the beaten eggs and goes a bit crazy with the salt and pepper.

‘I take them to sleep,’ Trish continues, ‘but Johnny takes them both day and night now. Doctor’s orders. He’s doing well. Unlike my baby. I’ll never trust him on his own again. Pass me that bread knife, will you, dear?’