My phone pings.

You rang?

It’s our Kit, my brother. He’s noticed the missed call from me this morning. I start to type a reply along the lines of needing to speak to him, but the words fail me. I try again.

Kit, I’ve got some bad news … Nope. Delete.

I can’t get into this on WhatsApp.

Ring me back when you get a mo

I’m in Lisbon. You ok sis? X

Shit. I totally forgot. It’s his stag weekend.

All good! Just wanted to tell you to HAVE A BALL. Love you.

Love you more. X

I down my glass of Shiraz and look at the spring rolls, seeping with grease in their plastic container. I should eat one, line my stomach. Biting it in half, the cold beansprouts and chicken spill into my mouth, making me gag. There’s no taste, just mass. Chewing is a gigantic effort I can do without. I toss the uneaten half onto the floor. Then I grab the bag of prawn crackers and hurl it against the wall.

Agh, so what?

Nobody’s here to stop me.

I’m new to London, aren’t I, so unlike Jack or Beth, I don’t have a circle of friends yet. Beth’s in Liverpool for the weekend at a family do. She insisted that I tag along, but I was firm with my, ‘no’. My mum’s gone quiet – thank God, because I can’t face giving her the news yet – and I presume it’s because she’s assigned herself a task for our Kit’s wedding. He isn’t getting married until August, but my mum’s been collecting jam jars for years – you know, just in case. So either Kit’s finally succumbed to her putting them to some decorative use, or my nan’s sick. My mum only ever tells me that my nan’s been sick once she’s well again.

I open a second bottle of wine and make a start on the Ikea drawers. Jack’s mum’s words rattle around my head: ‘there’s nothing at all that suggests she’s a permanent fixture around here’, and I imagine her sat on a Channel 5 panel, discussing the headlines, daily politics, and me, her disgust at my existence clear to the nation.

Listen, Patricia. I’ll give you permanent.

I drag the flat-pack box into the hallway, open it and browse the instruction pamphlet. I instantly feel tired and shiver, my sockless feet ice cold. Reaching up to the coat rack, I pull down Jack’s parka, slip my arms into the heavy fabric and inhale deeply.

‘Were you murdered?’ I cry out. An Allen key drops, clattering louder than I expect. ‘Like, were you involved in something – I dunno, like, illegal? I mean, maybe I’ve been naive. Maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. Maybe …’