I never did jump on a train to St Ives but I did let myself daydream about a different kind of life. I never told anyone about those daydreams, not even Liz, because I didn’t want to appear ungrateful for the life I had. We all have secrets. Most are guilty, a few are wretched and some are too precious to share.

My mobile bleeps, snapping me back into my childhood bedroom where piles of boxes and bags are stacked up beside the bed and a floral duvet that smells of lavender washing powder is pulled up to my chin. It’s 8.05 a.m. and Mum and Dad are moving around in the kitchen. Mum’s singing along to a tinny tune on the radio.

Two text messages. One from Stephen. One from Kira.

Stephen: I had a text from Mark asking me to go to the pub with him tonight. Do you know what he wants?

Kira: Hi Claire. I hope you’re OK. Just to let you know that Jake’s all right. He’s gone to work. Only trouble is Ian has asked him to work on a job in Cheltenham so he’s had to take his van and he was going to let me borrow it to help my friend bring in her sculptures for the exhibition, ready for the opening on Monday. I don’t suppose you know where we could rent one for cheap? K x

I text them back:

Hi Stephen. I think Mark wants to sort things out between the two of you. You should call him. Life’s too short. C.

Hi Kira. Glad to hear Jake is OK.

I pause. Has he told her what happened in the car park that night? He can’t have. She wouldn’t have stuck around if she knew, not when her own mum is so violent. Jake must have decided not to tell her until after her exhibition.

More secrets. Will they never end?

You can borrow my car, I tap out. I’m not planning on going anywhere today. Pop round to my mum’s and I’ll give you the keys.

A text from Stephen appears the second I press ‘send’.

Is he angry? I’m not going to meet him if he’s angry.

He’s not angry, I type back. He wants to put things right.

Another text from Kira.

That’s very kind but I don’t know how long I’ll need it for and I wouldn’t want to put you out. K x

It’s fine. Honestly. It’s insured for other drivers. Come round.

Will you be there? Stephen types back. I’d prefer it if you were.

‘Claire!’ Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Dad’s making some bacon sandwiches. Would you like one?’

I am up to my elbows in bubbles, scrubbing at an oven tray shiny with bacon fat, when there’s a knock at the front door.