They chuckle, knowing my mum and how much she simply wants to help. You can’t force a heart to heal when it’s been shattered as much as mine.

‘She means well,’ Vicky smiles. Being the only mum of the group I imagine she sees my mum’s input slightly differently to Zaza and me. Does she look at me and wonder how she’d feel if it were her Barnaby in this position? Probably. I bet I would if the tables were turned.

‘Yeah. Thank you for joining me today,’ I say, my lips forming one of the sad smiles they’ve become used to pulling. ‘It means a lot.’

‘Erm, we’re not just here for you. She said she’d haunt us if we didn’t, remember?’ Zaza tries to lighten the mood while reminding us of the promises we’d made while sitting in Walpole Park last September. She hadn’t set a date – there’s no way she could’ve, but she had given us a timeframe, a certain number of weeks post death to sit before having to stand up and move. Zaza’s engagement party was one of those must-happen events that Pia wouldn’t hear of her cancelling, postponing or delaying – and that’s where the whole idea of these little instructions, or the rules of her death, seemed to come from. I hadn’t expected her to talk in this way, as though she were conceding to the inevitability of her death when we had avoided the reality in favour of travel and existing for so long, but there she was, facing it head on and making sure we did too. Pia knew life would continue and she wanted to make sure we were a part of it.

‘Us being here is purely selfish,’ nods Vicky into her mug.

‘I was fine with the idea of her appearing at the window every now and then but when she said she’d disrupt my sleep for the rest of eternity I had to crack. I need my sleep. Damn her for knowing my weakness,’ Zaza says with a shrug. ‘Turns out her haunting us was a tad inconvenient.’

‘Sometimes I wish she would though,’ I admit.

‘You all right?’ Vicky asks, her voice full of concern. ‘Fuck – there I go again.’

‘Vicky, it’s OK. I can answer the question,’ I appease, hating the fact she’s second guessing what she’s saying to me when dialogue between us has always been so unfiltered, blunt and easy. ‘No. I’m not all right. I don’t know how to be or how to do. I’ve sat on the sofa for the past hour wondering how I go about starting to remove pieces of her from this place when I really don’t want to.’

‘Then you don’t have to,’ offers Zaza, as though that would actually be an option.

‘You know I do,’ I say.