‘It’s aromatherapy. It’s about healing and relaxation. And the money will pay for driving lessons, university.’

‘I’m thirteen.’

‘You won’t be thirteen forever.’

He looks at me. His eyes are almost blue tonight. Always changing. He’s too thin no matter what I feed him. Skinny and hunched as though he’s constantly expecting the world to kick him in the guts. And his hair. So bright even when it’s flattened and moulded to his head. He’d still be wearing his hat now if I hadn’t made him take it off. I look for traces of Ian in his face. I watch out for little signs but I never really see it. It’s been so long. And with him everything was on the surface. The way he clenched his jaw when he was angry, the muscle in his eyebrow that used to twitch just before he lost control. I see Ian in faces of the lads who hang out next to the Spar shop round the corner, rummaging around in their trackie bottoms and hoiking spit onto the kerb. Their pasty shaved heads, and all that macho energy. But not here. I look at Alex and it’s like he never existed.

‘It’s not always this bad,’ he says and his voice is calmer, ‘sometimes it’s ok. I think she just really misses Granddad.’

I can’t talk for a minute. The photos on the mantelpiece. The one of me from high school with my hair the colour of tea sludge. Parted down the middle. Layered and flicked, hanging on either side of my face like a bloody cocker spaniel. I wish I could go back to that moment. Make better fashion choices, undo all the mess. But then I wouldn’t have him.

‘It’s ok,’ I say, ‘we’ll sort something out. But first we need to eat.’

‘There’s nothing in. I’ve already looked.’

I reach down for my bag and hand him my purse. ‘Go on,’ I say, ‘take a fiver out and nip across to the chippy.’

By the time he gets back my stomach’s started to eat itself. The smell of vinegar from the flimsy plastic bag. Everything’s such a mess. I root through the drawer for forks. Elastic bands and half-burnt birthday candles. A bereavement card bent and smeared with grease, resting on top of the wooden spoons. And something else. Poking out from underneath the plastic cutlery tray. The corner of a photograph. I have to lift everything up to get it out.

‘Alex! Come and look at this!’

‘What?’ he says, coming into the kitchen.

I hand him the photo and balance the sweaty bag of food on top of the plates. ‘Bring it with you. We’ll eat on our knees.’

‘It’s her dad,’ he says once we’re settled.