I close the laptop. My hands are really shaking. Something about this runs so close to home, hooking onto all my suppressed fears. Moving me to do things I never normally do.

The TV clock says it’s almost half past nine. Late, but maybe not too late. I pick up my phone, the impulse a compulsion, and take it through to the kitchen. I know the number off by heart, though I could count on two hands the number of times I’ve dialled it.

I can’t remember the last time I did this. Clumsily, I type the digits and press call. Six rings, seven. Maybe they aren’t in. Maybe they no longer answer the phone at this time.

Then: ‘Hello?’

I hesitate just a moment. ‘Dad?’

‘Jennifer?’ His voice is surprised, pleased. I never call him. He always calls me. ‘How are you? I mean … is everything okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, because that’s what I always, always say. But even as I say it, tears are sliding down my cheeks. I let my whole body slide down the kitchen units to sit on the cold kitchen floor. ‘I’m fine,’ I say again, somehow managing to stop my voice from cracking. ‘I just thought I should call, for a change. I’m all right, I’m quite okay. And Charlie –’ my voice sounds strange, high-pitched in my ears – ‘Charlie is great, he’s really doing fine.’

‘Oh good. That’s good.’

My words are like a runaway train, gathering speed. ‘You know, he’s almost nine now. He’s a lovely boy, really he is, and he’s growing up so fast.’

‘Okay,’ Dad says. ‘Well, that’s really great. Listen Jennifer, just let me …’ A pause on the line. ‘I’ll just take this downstairs – will you hang on a minute?’

‘Wait – Dad?’

‘Yes?’ I can picture him, hovering at the top of the stairs, one knobbly hand on the polished banister. I picture my mother, sitting in the upstairs living room, stiffly upright in her chair, eyes on the TV, but listening to everything going on.

I’ve started now and I don’t seem to be able to stop myself from rushing on, breaking protocol. Before I can stop myself, I’ve rushed even further, right into the one area I never meant to go. I don’t know why I’m even asking, it’s as though I’m deliberately trying to hurt myself. Or maybe I’m just feeling so desperate that I don’t care.

‘Dad … is Mum there?’

‘Jenn—’ Dad says again, in a voice that says, don’t you know better than to ask? but I cut him off, pushing forwards as though I can beg him into changing his answer.

‘Could I speak to her? Can’t you get her to come to the phone?’