‘How could you forget to tell me who Jack’s mother is?’ my mum cries once she’s back in the room, making her way to the kettle knowing full well I won’t be making tea anytime soon. ‘And where’s your teapot, Chloe?’

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘Dad?’

‘We’re just worried about you, love,’ he tells me. His coat has disappeared and I imagine he’s hung it on the rack beside Jack’s parka. ‘I told your mum you just needed some time, but let’s face it, it’s already been a month and we get the feeling you aren’t coping.’

‘How?’ I squeal, aware of how similar I sound to my mum, who’s looking through all the cupboards for a bloody teapot.

‘Beth said she’s hardly seen you,’ she says, impatience oozing out of her.

‘She lives in Islington and it’s a hike to get there from Lewisham after work,’ I say.

‘She also said you’re full of excuses. Wanting to spend time with Jack. Chloe, love. He’s in Heaven.’

I need them to get out.

My dad is inspecting the lounge with a childish grin, as if he’s just arrived at a self-catering holiday apartment on the Med. He tests out the sofa with a buoyant bounce, then gets up and tests the other side by lying down with his hands behind his head, putting his feet up but letting them hover without touching the cushions. He twists around to look out of the window.

‘Shame about the view, eh?’ he remarks, referring to the stone stairs and the gravel.

‘You sound like Jack,’ I say.

‘We really are very sorry, love,’ my dad says, sitting and patting the seat beside him.

I take it, my head falling naturally into his shoulder. I want to be ten again, sad that my bike got a puncture and I had to push the damn thing all the way home from the park. Or sad because I got the knock-back from the pub when I was sixteen and my dad had to come and pick me up, all dressed up and nowhere to go.

‘Yesss!’ Mum shouts from the kitchen. Miraculously, she’s found a teapot. ‘Now come on, Chloe. Give us a smile, will you?’

‘I thought I was pregnant,’ I say. My dad’s arm tenses around me and I panic that my mum might drop and smash the teapot. ‘It’s alright, it’s alright – I’m not. Pregnant.’

‘Oh thank God,’ my dad says and buries his face in his hands. He thinks he’s saying the right thing, bless him.

‘Actually, I’m …’ I search for the correct word, ‘disappointed.’ Except that doesn’t give weight to the truth. I’d be disappointed if I failed my driving test.