I oblige and Trish slices the baguette up with terrific speed before dipping each piece into the eggy mixture and tossing it into the hot pan.

‘What happened?’ I ask, the sizzle making me jump. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to—’

‘Overdosed. Says it was an accident. Freddie’s always needed an extra eye on him, you see: a strong arm around his shoulders. And he’s had that, in abundance, his whole life. It’s exhausting, Chloe. But essential. It never occurred to me that Jack would be the one I’d lose. Not for a second.’

The bitterness in her tone makes me think that somehow, she’s blaming herself for Jack’s death, which is ridiculous, but also achingly sad. I imagine sitting in this kitchen under different circumstances. Maybe I’d be talking to Trish about my job, or listening to tales about hers: what she really thinks about Jeremy Vine and Piers Morgan. Maybe I’d get a slice of eggy bread. Jack would be chatting to his dad in the lounge, kicking his brother jovially and telling him to get off his lazy arse, to put his phone away. I wonder what Jack and John chatted about? I want to ask Trish, but I can’t. We aren’t there. I can’t force her to reminisce just because I’m creating a fictional scenario in my head.

‘Did you keep anything?’ Trish asks, flipping the eggy bread. ‘Of Jack’s?’

‘No, I promise everything is there. Every sock, every belt.’

‘Chloe, I didn’t mean you couldn’t keep something. I asked because I was interested to see what you’d kept, if anything. But forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters,’ I cry. ‘I would’ve kept a t-shirt. Any t-shirt. I’ve been sleeping in them, you see, since he … But I stopped doing that about a month or so ago. I didn’t wanna stop; I wanted to sleep in them forever, just in a very different life. Sorry, that was way too much information.’

Turning the heat off, Trish slips the eggy bread onto a plate and squeezes a huge dollop of ketchup on the side. Holding up one finger tells me silently that she’ll be back in a minute.

The coffee is strong; the caffeine jitter tickles my knees, my knuckles.

Breezing back into the kitchen, Trish pulls out a chair and plonks down beside me.

‘How’s work going?’ she asks, clasping her hands together on the table and crossing her ankles. ‘A teacher, yes?’

‘Good. Better than ever. I’ve applied for a permanent post. We recently had a school production and it really lifted me spirits,’ and I stop. Minutes ago, this woman confided in me how her husband and son are battling with serious depression and there’s me making my life sound like a fucking episode of Glee. Trish gives another, ‘Hmm,’ a little higher pitched than last time.