‘But you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Tilly Mint,’ my dad says. I don’t need to remind him that I’m thirty-six. He’ll forever see me in my purple shell suit and Pony trainers, attempting Dirty Dancing routines in the back garden. ‘Tell her, Sue.’

My mum is cradling the teapot, rubbing it absent-mindedly with a tea towel. Oh, what I’d give for a genie to appear and give me three wishes so I could vanish. Or send them back up north on the bloody train.

‘Oh, Chloe love,’ my mum whimpers, ‘you’ve no idea how happy this makes me.’

I shift beside my dad. He chokes on thin air.

‘I never thought you wanted children,’ she goes on, ‘but you do, and that makes me and your dad so happy, love. Isn’t that right, Bernie? I’d honestly given up. Honestly thought, nope. She’s one of them. Not interested. I mean, it’s always baffled me, you know, the fact that you’re not very career-driven either, but—’

‘Whoa. Mum. Stop. And I’ll say it again, I’m not pregnant.’

‘But you want to be! And now’s your chance. You’re gonna meet a fabulous fella, love. I can feel it in me water. He might be just around the corner. Or better still, in Liverpool. A nice Liverpool lad, Chloe. Wouldn’t that be marvellous? And you’ll get your baby. You will.’

I stand, to enforce an end to this conversation.

‘Mum, have some respect. Please. You’re in Jack’s flat. Amongst Jack’s things.’

‘Exactly. Jack’s! Not yours!’

My dad jumps up and rubs his hands together with vigour. He’s got an idea.

‘Who fancies a Chinese tonight, ladies? Any good chippies around here, Tilly Mint?’

My phone starts ringing and I practically do the splits leaping across the room to answer it.

‘Hello!’ I sing, paying no attention to the caller or number.

‘Hi, this is Gianna. I’m calling from Antonella,’ says the melodic Italian accent. ‘Is this Chloe Roscoe?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Just calling to confirm your reservation for this evening at 8 p.m.?’

‘Oh …’ Jack’s birthday treat. I’d genuinely forgotten.

He turned thirty-eight the week before he died. I couldn’t get a table for his actual birthday weekend; the earliest possible night was, well, tonight. I glance at the business card for Antonella on the fridge, the words embossed in gold scroll. I’d been meaning to cancel. Seems dialling a number to cancel a reservation for your dead boyfriend’s bucket-list restaurant isn’t the easiest task to complete.

‘Hello, Chloe? Are you still there?’ Gianna asks.

I clear my throat. ‘Yeah, sorry.’

‘Wonderful. See you tonight then?’

I hear my mum tell my dad there’s a red wine stain on the carpet.

‘Yeah …’ I panic.

‘Great! So that’s a table for two at 8 p.m.—’

‘Wait! I – erm—’