‘Frankly, I’d rather hack off my own arm with a blunt penknife, but I get why she doesn’t want to be here. I’m not going, Nick. I’ve only just started this new job at the BBC and I can’t ask for time off already.’

‘Italy?’ says Joe, sounding childishly excited. ‘Whereabouts?’

Bethany rolls her eyes.

‘An island off an island. It sounds pretty cool. Remote, rural. The “real” Italy.’ I do air quote marks. ‘Beautiful sandy beaches. Pizza every day. Beer; no, hang on, what do you drink? Prosecco on tap.’

Joe does a thumbs up at me behind Bethany’s back. I think back to last week. It was the first time I’d been to Amy’s house for, well, ages; it was the first time she’d asked me to babysit for over a year, and I’d shown up late. It reminded me of what I’ve been missing: my family. I might find it hard to be with them some of the time, but I can’t manage another year like this one.

‘I’ll tell her you won’t speak to your new boss about taking a week off so that you can be with your family for the anniversary of the death of your three-year-old niece,’ I say.

‘You shit.’

‘Whoa,’ says Joe. ‘Bee, you’ve got to be there! Family is the most important thing there is,’ he adds, his expression earnest.

That was too much. I change tack. ‘Anyway, aren’t you freelance? And the star of the show? It’s good for your image if you aren’t always available.’ She narrows her eyes, trying to assess whether I’m taking the piss. It might still be regional telly, but the new show she’s presenting has almost a million viewers. ‘With your powers of persuasion you’ll have your new telly chief wrapped around your little finger in no time.’

‘Stuart Linfield is the exec, and there’s no way. Quit now, before you come up with any more crap.’

‘I don’t want to be there on my own?’ I make it into a question, as if I’m trying out the line for size.

‘Ah,’ she says, punching me on the shoulder, ‘that’s the real reason.’

‘Come on, where’s your sense of adventure? At the very least, you’ll get a tan.’

‘Sense of self-preservation more like.’ She pauses. ‘Is Dad going?’

I shake my head and for a moment there’s silence while we both look at our feet. If our father hadn’t been looking after Ruby-May, our niece would still be alive, an almost-four-year-old, believing in unicorns and dreaming of being an astronaut. I don’t say it because, well, it wouldn’t help, but I think about it all the time; and I guess Bethany probably does too.