After the door closes behind her, Jed raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Another satisfied customer.’

‘I remember what it was like to be twelve,’ I say. ‘Bad enough, even without cancer.’

‘It’s actually a benign brain tumour, but it’s still making its presence felt. She had treatment last year in Birmingham, but the tumour is growing again, so she’s come down here for proton-beam therapy.’

I shake my head. ‘Poor kid. Still, you’ll have her figured out by tomorrow and a fully signed-up member of the Jed Porter fan club by Wednesday.’

‘She could be the toughest nut yet. There’s all sorts going on in Casey’s head, and I don’t just mean Bob.’

‘Bob?’

‘Her tumour.’

‘Oh?’ I try hard to rein in my nosiness, but it’s been ages since I’ve felt this curious about anyone. ‘So what’s the story?’

‘It’s no secret – she’s given the other kids a blow-by-blow account.’ But Jed still leans in conspiratorially. ‘Yesterday she met her father for the first time in her life!’

‘Wow.’ I lean in.

‘According to Casey, her dad’s high up in the music scene. Lives in some swanky penthouse down by the harbour. Those warehouse conversions cost at least a couple of million. She showed us pictures on her phone. She obviously thinks he’s the coolest dad on the planet.’

Inside my body, somewhere between my heart and my belly, a flame of indignation ignites. I try to ignore it. ‘But if he’s such a great guy, where has he been for twelve years?’

‘Apparently he didn’t know he had a daughter for the first couple of years. It was only when the child support people tracked him down that he started paying towards her maintenance.’

‘But he’s never met her?’

Jed shakes his head. ‘No. It’s only happening now because she’s sick. Casey thinks it’s fate – written in the stars, that kind of vibe – because she’s always known he lived in Bristol. So when the doctors referred her here, she messaged him and the prodigal dad has finally got involved. She thinks it’s happy ever after.’

That flame grows. ‘I can’t even . . . How could you have a daughter and not want to be in her life? When so many people never even get the chance.’

Jed sighs. ‘Gemma . . . Shit. Sorry. I should have thought – sorry.’

‘No, don’t worry. I wasn’t thinking of Andrew,’ I lie.

Jed is the most perceptive of my husband’s friends. He was Andrew’s best man, and the two of them were founder members of the Puzzlers’ Club, which met every Thursday in the kind of authentically rough back-street boozer hipsters love. They ended up recruiting thirty members, playing retro board games and competing to source the trickiest jigsaws.

In Andrew’s last weeks, when he was too sick to leave the house, Jed even re-created the vibe in our living room, complete with warm beer, a tobacco-scented candle and a 1970s prog-rock playlist.

‘You can always talk to me,’ Jed says.