It wasn’t worth replying. ‘You guys can go,’ she said to her mum. ‘It’s a long drive.’

Her mother swallowed. Was she genuinely about to cry, or was this for Greg’s benefit, all part of the heroic single-mother act? Chloe scolded herself internally, not for the first time, for being angrier with her mother for marrying Greg than she was with her father for walking out on them fifteen years ago.

‘I can’t believe we’re here,’ Louise said, her voice cracking. ‘I can’t believe that we got here, all on our own.’ She turned to Greg. ‘I was the same age she is now when I had her, and we made it, the two of us.’ She pulled Chloe into a hug. None of what her mother was saying was untrue. But Louise was doing the thing she always did, performing for an invisible camera. Ever since Chloe could remember, her mother had been acting out a film, casting herself as the tragic but beautiful heroine left to try and raise her daughter alone. This, Chloe supposed, was the closing scene. She’d drive off into the sunset with Greg (the fact that Greg was the antithesis of a romantic hero didn’t seem to matter much) and the credits would roll. Louise had done her job. Everyone would have to agree that she was a Good Mother.

‘Love you,’ Chloe said weakly into her mother’s apple-scented hair.

Louise picked her handbag up off the unmade bed, holding it on the crook of her skinny brown arm. ‘If you want anything, you just call. All right?’

Chloe nodded, surprised at the constriction in her throat. She’d been counting down to this since Greg had moved into their little house six years ago, literally and metaphorically sat his fat arse between Chloe and her mother on the leather sofa and commandeered the remote control, replacing their marathons of America’s Next Top Model with wrestling.

‘You guys should get going,’ she said, squeezing her eyelids shut.

‘You’re right,’ said Greg. ‘Your new mate will be here before long.’ He gestured at the empty bed. ‘You don’t want us embarrassing you when your roomie shows up!’

He didn’t know how right he was. Zadie was supposed to be her first friend here – someone to debate literature with, to stay up all night talking about love, life and the future with. And that wasn’t going to happen if Greg asked her whether she followed WWE before Chloe had had a chance to find out what books she liked. She watched as they disappeared through the door, down the stairs. She followed their figures through the window, her mother’s slender hand clamped in Greg’s shovel-like one.