She does as Maureen suggests, wincing as it scrapes on the lino floor, wanting to make herself smaller, less noticeable. As a child, Chloe was convinced that if she made herself quiet enough, people wouldn’t notice her still there, hanging around after tea, or after the credits on a film had rolled round.

It’s her first night at the Kyles’ Low Drove home and they’ve invited her to eat with them. The kitchen windows are steamed up, although they disguise nothing but blackness beyond. The room is filled with the thick meaty smell of beef and carrots, which makes her think of Nan, and it’s only intensified when Maureen pulls the lid off and starts serving up on blue and white willow plates. Patrick sniffs at the plate she serves him.

‘Smells good, Mo,’ he says.

‘Thought I’d do something special for Chloe’s first night,’ she says, smiling to herself as she ladles carrots and dumplings onto each plate.

She sets them down in turn at the table. Chloe feels the heat from her plate rise to meet her cheeks. She waits for Maureen to sit down before she picks up her knife and fork, but Patrick wastes no time and digs in.

‘Don’t wait for me, Chloe, you start eating,’ Maureen says. ‘I’m just going to butter some bread for Pat.’

He sticks up his thumb without looking up.

Chloe picks up their cutlery. It feels alien in her hands, heavier, not like Nan’s old bone-handled set which had fit so well.

‘Sorry, Chloe, can I just get to the . . .’ Maureen asks.

Her chair is in the way of the fridge. ‘Sorry,’ she says, shuffling forward and bumping into the small table.

Patrick’s forkful of food spills down his cardigan.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Chloe says, standing up to get him a tea towel and bumping the table again. Gravy splashes off his plate.

He looks up at her from under his curly fringe.

‘Patrick, I—’

But Maureen is there with a cloth. ‘It’s no matter,’ she says, wiping his front down like she would a child.

Chloe is conscious then of the empty chair at the table. The one with a short pile of magazines in front of it rather than a plate. Patrick looks up at her but doesn’t say anything, then starts eating again while Maureen puts the butter back in the fridge.

‘Chloe, while I’m here, I’ve cleared a shelf in here for you to put your things on,’ she says, opening the door a little wider so Chloe can peer in.

‘OK, thanks,’ she says.

‘I still feel uncomfortable about you making your own meals,’ she says, flipping the tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Are you sure you won’t eat with us?’

Patrick looks up, a piece of beef and dumpling suspended on his fork.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Chloe says. ‘I can make myself something every evening.’