Trish folds her arms, a stance that reminds me of Jack. Arm-folding isn’t uncommon – I mean, we all do it. But it’s the way she taps the fingers of her left hand on her inner arm. Physically, Jack was larger, broader, taller than his mum, their size difference so extreme that if he ate her whole, he wouldn’t look like he’d put on any weight. And yet, here, there’s a distinct similarity, which I love and hate all at once.

‘I’m sad, Chloe,’ Trish sighs, looking directly at me. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever not be sad.’

‘Me too,’ I admit.

Her reply is silent: a subtle narrowing of her eyes.

God, I’d love to tell her that she’s going to be a grandma. A nan.

‘I’m sorry I never came to the wake,’ I say.

‘Oh. Didn’t you?’

‘No … I …’ … have no idea how to respond.

Trish takes the wall calendar down from the side of the fridge. It’s mine, one of the only household accessories I’ve contributed that’s in use. The themed photographs are of cats snapped in unusual objects; a novelty Christmas present from our Kit.

‘You are aware that it’s July?’ Trish asks.

I nod, puzzled, and follow Trish’s gaze downwards.

‘Oops.’ The current page is still on June.

With an unsubtle tut, Trish flicks to August. Her finger taps along the boxes and stops at the last weekend, pressing hard into the paper. She reaches into her handbag and takes out a pen – the sort nicked from a hotel room – then, adjusting her specs to dip to the end of her small nose, she peers at me with her naked eye.

‘My son, Freddie, is moving into this flat,’ she tells me, circling the date. ‘Then.’

‘Got it,’ I say, having got nothing at all.

Trish stands upright and holds out her arms as if to say well then. Or perhaps she wants me to give her a hug? Luckily, I don’t have to decide. I’m saved by the doorbell again. Giles or Ingrid inviting me upstairs for pasta, hopefully. I think. I leave the eerie silence between Jack’s mother and me, head to the front door and open it.

‘Chloe love! Whack the kettle on, will you?’

‘Mum?!’

‘Well, you wouldn’t come to me, so I’ve come to you.’

And now it’s my mum’s turn to barge past, stopping halfway down the narrow hallway.

‘Where’s your loo, love?’ she asks. ‘I’m desperate.’

Gobsmacked, I direct her to the bathroom. Attempting to process this unexpected arrival, I turn around to close the door.

‘Steady on, Tilly Mint! Don’t leave me hanging on the doorstep.’

‘Dad?!’

‘I tried to tell your mum you’d get a fright,’ he says, apologetically.