I reach down to the little box beside the spare loo roll and unwrap a tampon. Never before has this simple act symbolised so fucking much. Any chance of having Jack’s child has gone, wiped out as quickly as a man gets hit by a van. Is it stupid that I’d been banking on a part of Jack living within me? It seemed like the fairest outcome of a most horridly unfair situation, right? Doesn’t every cloud have a silver fucking lining?

I guess not.

Oh, God. I’m empty.

I breathe slowly, in and out. I bite my fist.

Making my way back to the kitchen, willing Trish to be gone, I’m also hoping my mum and dad have made a snap decision to get out of the London they hate so much. But no. My mum’s talking about our Kit’s wedding and my dad’s still holding his coat.

‘He’s having a portable photo booth which’s costing a fortune,’ she’s telling Trish. ‘I don’t know why. I mean, can you name one person who likes the look of themselves on a passport photo? Bernie looks like a bloody serial killer on his, don’t you, love? But our Kit knows what’s trendy, I’ll give him that. He’s wearing Paul Smith, you know.’

Trish catches my eye.

‘I need to get going, Chloe,’ she says. ‘I’ve marked the calendar for you. You’ve got my number if you’re able to get out sooner. Okay?’

I say nothing and my mum widens her eyes at me, telepathically spelling out how my silence is embarrassing her and my dad. But I don’t care. I’m sick of the overwhelming sense that the last few months of my life are being belittled wherever I turn. I’m invisible to all who knew Jack, and my own family are jumping on that bandwagon, too. This is wrong, and I have to prove it. It happened. Jack and me, it fucking happened. It was sexy, it was annoying, it was frustrating, it was perfect, it was mediocre, it was shocking, it was hilarious, it was real. It happened.

‘Bye bye Trish.’ My mum sees her out and my dad plays follow-the-leader, trailing behind, carrying his coat. ‘It’s an absolute pleasure to have met you.’

I think I hear Trish say, ‘Likewise.’

‘And if you ever find yourself in our neck of the woods,’ my dad’s saying, ‘here’s me card; Bernie Roscoe Taxis. We’ve only got a handful of cars but we’re the most reliable in Liverpool.’

They’re waving Trish off like the Beverly bloody Hillbillies. I can’t see them, but I know they’ll continue to wave until Trish’s car is out of sight.