He talked for a while then about school and football and his friends. For the first time in ages he didn’t mention his ex-girlfriend and I guessed he’d moved on from her now. In September he’d start his last year of high school and would be going off to university a year later.

“Still thinking of applying to London?” I asked. He’d talked about nothing else for months.

He nodded. “Though I keep thinking about what you said, about it being a great place to live when you’re on a good salary, but not so good if you’re broke.”

“That’s true, but if you really want to go, then you should apply. And you won’t be broke,” I said. “Your mum and dad will help you. I will, too.”

His head swung around. “You?”

“Why not? You’re my stepson.”

“But you’ve split up with my dad.”

“So? Doesn’t take away what we have, does it?”

He coughed with embarrassment then and I took the chance to go into the kitchen to fetch some Ben & Jerry’s.

“I thought you’d be living with someone,” he said when I passed him a carton. “A guy.”

So did I, I wanted to say. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, you know. It’s what always happens. But then Mum talked to me. Said that she hadn’t left for anyone. There was no reason why you should have.”

“I thought . . .” I stopped myself.

“You thought she’d left my dad to be with Martin?”

I nodded. “I assumed that’s what had happened.” In fact I assumed that because Tom had told me that. Several times. He’d told me he’d discovered her having an affair and had ended the marriage immediately.

“No. She didn’t meet him until a few months later. My mum and dad separated after Christmas and Martin started teaching at my school the following September. Mum met him at parents’ evening and I could tell she really liked him. She couldn’t stop smiling. But she didn’t date him until I’d gone up a year, into another class.”

My head spun. Tom had described it so differently. I’d really felt for him, that he’d found out she was unfaithful. He’d told me about the terrible time he’d had. Now I didn’t know whom to believe.

“Did he treat you badly?” Josh asked. “Dad, I mean.” He looked away. “Did he hurt you?”

I winced. No child should have to ask that question about their parent.

“No, of course he didn’t. We grew apart,” I said, trying to be tactful. “I felt as though your dad wanted me to do what he wanted all the time. I couldn’t be myself with him.”