Maureen continues eating, letting the opportunity to mention Angie slip by again. Chloe feels a desire then to pick at the scab. A detective would. Or at least they should.

‘Nan was the only one there for me after Mum died,’ she says.

There is silence at the table for a second. But then Maureen looks up, her brown eyes full of concern.

‘You lost your mum as well?’ She puts her fork down and covers her mouth. Patrick yawns from the other side of the table; he rubs his hands over his belly and pushes his chair back.

‘I’m going to sit in front of the telly,’ he says. He leaves his plate on the table. Maureen doesn’t answer him; instead she puts a hand on Chloe’s forearm. Her skin tingles in response.

‘I was fifteen,’ Chloe says, taking the last mouthful of her dinner.

Maureen’s eyes are shining now, trained on nothing but Chloe. She’s glad that Patrick has left the room, that she has Maureen all to herself. She feels as if she can relax a little.

Chloe points at her plate again, more confident now. ‘That dinner really was lovely.’

‘No mum, no dad, no other grandparents?’ Maureen says slowly.

Chloe shakes her head.

‘So you’re all alone in the world, you poor love.’

Chloe feels her tap her arm and her blood pumps harder in response. She’s reminded of visiting Nan when she had her fall – she blushes at the thought that that was only a week ago. She feels necessary.

‘Oh, it’s OK.’ Chloe shrugs. The feeling is still there, right under her skin, but the problem is, it’s addictive. ‘I guess you get used to it. Loss, I mean.’

She holds her gaze this time and it’s Maureen who looks away first. Chloe glances at Patrick’s empty chair, feeling bolder somehow now he’s left the room.

‘Nan took me in after Mum died. I was fifteen then, perhaps I was used to change. I was adopted, see. I’ve often thought about finding them but . . .’

She doesn’t know why she says it. Perhaps to distance herself from the lie about Nan.

‘You were adopted too?’

Chloe nods.

‘How old were you then?’

‘About four, something like that.’

‘Do you remember anything of your birth parents?’

She shakes her head. ‘I wish I did.’

She surprises herself then, how convincing she sounds. ‘Sometimes there are moments – split seconds – when I think I remember something, when a memory comes back to me, but,’ she sighs, ‘it’s all so foggy . . .’

Maureen has stopped eating. She sits at the table, her knife and fork suspended in the air.

‘But can social services not tell you? Do they not have a record of your parents?’