He had misled her about the loss of his first house, though he couldn’t blame the council for that – that had been his own stupidity. He’d lent money to his brother, who’d failed to pay him back: when the council let him go, the mortgage was suddenly unaffordable. He’d sold up. He’d bought the flat, but now that was unaffordable too – which was one reason why he couldn’t keep changing his mind and getting off the train.

No, to tell Amy the truth would have left him weak – and he couldn’t do it because he’d made so many bad decisions. It was easier to pretend, so he pretended to be not affluent, but comfortable, paying for a new toaster and a fancy microwave, and – using one of the credit cards he should have cut into pieces years ago – he even bought her a bigger television.

Why had he done that when he hardly watched television?

It was really for Amy’s youngest daughter, as a way of persuading her to join them downstairs in the evenings, when all she wanted was to stay in her room. He had paid for the carpets to be cleaned, and he’d picked up a succession of plumber’s bills when the boiler stopped working. ‘Helping out’ was what he called it.

‘You’ve got to let me help out,’ he’d say.

‘You’re not rich,’ said Amy. ‘You’ve got your own place, too.’

He still had it, just about. He had a key to the front door, and a second to his own tiny upstairs hall which led to the one bedroom, which was all he needed as he had no children, and no old friends who rang to say they were passing, could he put them up? A guest room would have been just another fiction, and Amy was the last of his too-many fictions, or so he hoped: he would learn his lesson. Matt had called him a shit, twice – but that was a word from the playground, and it didn’t even scratch the skin. Amy’s words cut deeper, and he had to stand there with his ear to the phone as they sliced and burned.

‘How have you kept it going?’ she said. ‘For so long?’

Her voice had a deeper register than normal, as if she’d spent the afternoon shouting or crying. He was about to reply, when her voice suddenly got louder and it was as if the woman’s mouth was right up against his ear, forcing the words inside like little stones. ‘How, Michael? How have you let it get this far? Is this your…?’

She paused.

‘Is this what you like to do? Because…’

‘No,’ said Michael.

‘How serious are you? About… cancelling? Is this – what? Is this you postponing, or saying you want some time? What are you doing?’

‘No, Amy. Listen—’