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The old lady looked confused. She adjusted her glasses as if that would help her hear better.

‘Able to what, dear?’

‘Confirm his whereabouts,’ I clarified over the thud of my tell-tale heart.

She patted my arm. Her nails were painted coral pink, her skin was warm. She wore antique rings, Yardley’s Lavender.

Funny the way memory works. I can remember everything about her, the stuffy central heating, the smell of dust burning on the lights. But nothing of what I said next. Only the fire in my stomach, the nausea welling in my throat.

‘I couldn’t say. Frankly when you get to my age. . .’ She trailed off, looked momentarily concerned. ‘I told them what a wonderful young man he is, though. Always so polite and helpful, bless his heart. Such a hard worker too, the hours he puts in at that crisis centre. I hope his boss appreciates him.’

‘Did you tell them that?’ my mother asked.

‘Tell them what?’

‘About Matty working late.’

‘Oh dear, no, I didn’t. Do you think I should have?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

But she didn’t sound sure.

‘Do you believe that?’ I asked my mother, once we were in the Volvo on our way home, my heart doing a tap dance inside my chest.

‘Believe what?’

‘That it was a routine visit.’

She sighed, a heaviness in it.

‘Honestly, I don’t know what to believe any more.’

We spent the rest of the journey in silence. Me staring out of the window, her staring resolutely ahead.

Later that evening, a deliveryman turned up with a huge bunch of flowers. Twenty-four long-stemmed roses and a card with a picture of a teddy bear holding a heart. On the back, a message from Matty:

You give life meaning. M x

My mother dumped them on the kitchen counter, left them in their wrapping.

By the next morning, the petals had started to brown.