My mother is the least religious person I know. She doesn’t go to church because she believes in God, but because other people believe she’s a good, saintly woman and she likes to keep up appearances. My mother goes to church for the gossip, the free tea and biscuits, and because the neighbours do and she wouldn’t want them to get one over on her. She also likes to wear a hat and doesn’t get much occasion to these days. In reality, she thinks the vicar is a child-abusing faggot and a liberal because he’ll remarry divorcées in church, and my mother says so in a very loud voice at every possible opportunity.

‘She ‘‘dropped in’’ to find out what you were doing here.’

‘You didn’t tell her?’

My sister chews her lip. ‘I might have unintentionally mentioned that Jake had left you.’

‘Cheers. You’re a pal.’

‘Come on. Face the music. She won’t go home until she’s seen you.’

‘Are my eyes still red and puffy?’

She shakes her head vehemently. ‘Well, yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, they are.’

‘Don’t send her up here,’ I plead. ‘At least let me put some slap on first.’

‘Get a move on then or I might have to make the children tie her to the chair.’

Edie leaves and I take a grateful sip of my coffee. My sister makes coffee so strong that you can stand your spoon up in it. Even the smell is enough to make my eyeballs rotate. I can feel it vibrating my veins into life as it works its way into my system. So much of me is aching that I feel as if I’m coming down with flu. But none of it aches as much as my heart. I didn’t sleep at all—apart from the hour before my niece very kindly woke me up, of course. I just lay awake tossing and turning, wondering how I could have got this all so wrong. It’s very strange sleeping in a single bed after so long sharing a double. I didn’t know what to do with my legs and spent all night thrashing them about as if I was on a bike. Jake’s constant complaint that I hogged all the space in the bed could well have had some foundation. And it occurs to me that all of these small dissatisfactions could have been building up for some time. My first instinct is to ring him. He might have had a miserable night too and be feeling more convivial towards me. But if he isn’t, I might cry again and I couldn’t face my mother with the threat of tears close by.