‘Oh, Chloe. Imagine if you’d been with Jack for years. Imagine if you were married, had children. This would be an absolute tragedy. Christmas doesn’t seem like five minutes ago and you didn’t even know he was walking on God’s green earth. You were still knocking about with that fella you went to youth theatre with.’

‘Mum, this is a tragedy.’

‘Yes. I know. It is for all who knew him, but Chloe my love, you didn’t. I mean, you never really know someone until you’ve lived with them.’

‘I DO live with Jack. DID live with him.’

‘Oh, love. Your suitcase isn’t even unpacked yet.’

‘How do you know?!’

‘Because I know you!’

I want to hang up, but I know better than to hang up on my mum. I did that once. Twenty years ago, from a phone box outside Central Station in Liverpool. I can’t even begin to explain the guilt ingrained within me that’s lingered ever since, all stemming from her deep hurt at being hung up on by her own flesh and blood. For a whole week, she laid the table for three instead of four, refusing to feed me. My dad took pity once and saved me half of his cottage pie, but I survived the rest of the week on cereal, going to the chippy on my way home from sixth form or eating at Beth’s, although her family was experimenting with vegetarianism in the nineties. My taste buds weren’t accustomed to couscous and hummus back then.

‘Hold on a sec, Chloe … What was that, Carol?’

I hear Carol’s raspy rattle in the background. She’s still on forty a day.

‘Chloe,’ my mum comes back to me. ‘Carol’s asking when you’re coming home.’

‘Dunno.’

‘What do you mean, you “dunno”?’

‘I haven’t made any plans.’

‘Well, you better hurry up.’

‘Why?’

I’m walking through a park now, along the footpath, dodging small kids on scooters. All hints of sadness have evaporated from my mum’s voice and she’s annoyed. Plain annoyed.

‘Chloe, I’ve got a wedding to organise,’ she reminds me.

‘Well, Kit has a wedding to—’

‘Don’t talk about something you don’t know anything about, love. You’ve never come close to organising a wedding in your life. There’s so much to do, and I’m gonna need to know when you’re coming home so I can get your room ready.’

‘I’m not coming home.’

‘What?!’ my Mum shrieks, then lowers her voice for Carol. ‘She says she’s not coming home.’

‘Mum, I live in London now. I’ve got a job, a flat—’

‘Oh, you can’t be serious?’

‘Why is that so hard to believe?’

‘Because you’ve only been there two minutes. You’ve got to come home.’

‘I haven’t got to do anything.’