I took the same bus that I used to take out to the estate where I grew up. I sat at the rear of the bus which was half empty, fortunately, so nobody noticed this sick-looking guy, trembling like a jellyfish on the back seat. When we reached the bus stop nearest to my mum’s house ( I almost typed ‘my house’ then: but it isn’t my house; it never was) I nearly stayed put. Sod the four grand. I didn’t need it. It wasn’t worth it. But then I thought of Siobhan, and how I had to get the money to her, and forced myself to disembark.

I stood in front of the house, and before I had a chance to change my mind again, the door opened.

‘Hello Alex.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Are you just going to stand there gawping or do you want to come in?’

She looked older. She’d put on weight since I’d last seen her, and the extra bulk made her look shorter. Her black hair was peppered with grey and her face was heavily lined – not so much crow’s feet as raven’s feet. Well, it suited her.

I followed her into the kitchen and stood awkwardly by the kitchen table. Some fossil of a DJ was wittering away on the same portable radio Mum used to listen to when I was at school, but apart from that the house felt uncomfortably quiet and still. It hadn’t changed at all since I’d lived here – the same floral wallpaper, the same sickly-green paint, cracked tiles, dirty paper lampshades. I had this horrible feeling that I was eighteen again, that the last decade hadn’t happened. A week ago I might have welcomed the chance to start my adult life again, see if I could avoid making the same mistakes next time, but now I’ve got Emily - and I don’t want to erase my life.

I couldn’t shake the timewarp sensation. I felt my face to see if there were pimples on my chin. Annette would come through the door at any moment, her usual sneer making her look ugly. But it was just Mum now. Alone.

‘Annette’s already been round to collect her cheque,’ she said, reading my mind. She caught my eye for a second then looked away. I could hear her breathing above the song on the radio.

‘How is she?’

She shrugged. ‘She seems alright. Living in Cheltenham with an electrician. Robert. She brought him down at Christmas. Can’t say he electrified me.’

She laughed dryly, and said, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Umm …okay, thanks. I just need to use the loo.’

I left her filling the kettle and went upstairs to the toilet. After washing my hands I stuck my head into my old bedroom, expecting it to be empty. It was almost exactly as I’d left it. My old quilt was on the bed; my posters of The Cure and Transvision Vamp were still on the wall. Seeing it sent a shudder through me. Why had she kept it like that? It seemed unnatural, creepy. It was as if I’d died or gone missing, the bedroom of a teenage murder victim whose mother can’t bear to alter a thing. I rubbed my forearms, felt goosebumps rising.

Back downstairs, I went into the front room. A widescreen TV dominated the room. There was a photo of Annette at her graduation ceremony on the mantelpiece. And a picture of me when I was, what, five or six? I was holding our tortoise and grinning gummily. I picked up the photo and wished Emily was with me to see it. She’d have laughed at my fantastic Eighties haircut and the prized Blue Peter badge pinned to my hand-knitted tanktop. . For a moment I felt aggrieved that Mum didn’t have any pictures of me as an adult. But then, where would she have got any from? She’d have had to employ a private detective to follow me.

I went back into the kitchen and found a cup of tea waiting for me.

‘It seems so strange seeing you here again,’ she said. I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. I got the impression that there was something she wanted to tell me, some speech she had rehearsed while awaiting my arrival. She kept opening her mouth to speak and then closing it again, the words catching in her throat. Instead, she lit a cigarette and, after hesitating, offered me one. I shook my head. Weird – I didn’t want her to know I smoked.

We exchanged a few banalities about the weather, and then she said, ‘Well, I suppose you want your cheque.’

She opened the cupboard above her head and took down what looked like a biscuit tin. Then she opened it and pulled out the cheque, handing it to me. There was my name, and the words ‘Four Thousand Pounds Only’. Not really a figure to get a Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? contestant excited, but enough to sort out a couple of my problems. I took out my wallet and slipped it inside.

‘Should come in handy, I’d think,’ Mum said. ‘I’m thinking of spending my share on doing up the kitchen. Maybe I’ll have double-glazing fitted. Or I could go on holiday, I suppose.’

She turned and looked out the window and I followed her gaze, out at the dull road with its dull houses and cars and people. The sky was the colour of pale charcoal. No, I tell a lie: it wasn’t even that interesting. It was a nothing colour.

I finished my tea and didn’t know what to do next. All the muscles in my body were tensed; my shoulders hurt and I was aware that I been picking at the skin around my fingernails.

‘So,’ said Mum. ‘Are you… seeing anyone?’

I realised with a shock that there was genuine interest in her voice. Actually, more than that: hope. Maybe she was hoping that if I had a girlfriend, there might be a grandchild on the horizon – not that I’d ever let a son or daughter of mine near her. I almost lied; nearly told her I was alone – but I couldn’t resist the urge to talk about Emily.

I told Mum all about her: basic biographical facts, like the fact that she was twenty-seven, worked for a publisher and originally came from Brighton; I told my mum how pretty Emily was, and that ‘things were going really well’. I told her that I was in love.

She nodded, and although I had expecting this news to make her smile, she was frowning, her eyes downcast. Maybe she knew what I was tempted to say: that Emily was the first woman I had ever loved (and yes, I know, I know, I used to think I loved Siobhan, and the others, before her, but I was never deluded when it came to loving my mother), and that it was her own fault. And in that moment I realised something: I didn’t hate her. Not anymore. I felt sorry for her, living here on her own, her children driven away, her son a stranger to her. It was a pitiful situation. I also felt a weight lift off me, the pressure of hatred dissolving, evaporating into the grey air.

‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘I need to get home.’

She nodded.

‘Don’t you want to stay for tea? I got a nice quiche in. It’s from Marks and Spencer.’ There were some cakes beside the bread bin. I guessed she’d bought those for the occasion too.

‘I have to catch my train,’ I said.

‘Got to get back to her.’

‘Emily.’

‘Yes. Maybe you’ll bring her up to meet me one day,’

‘Maybe.’

All of a sudden I was outside. I walked towards the bus stop, not looking back. I wished everything could have been different. I wish I could have stayed and had a piece of quiche and the cakes she’d got in specially. But things weren’t different. And it wasn’t my fault.

The train was twenty minutes late and I stood on the platform listening to a furious gaggle of long-suffering commuters calling for the head of the Transport Minister, reminiscing about the good old days before privatisation and the electrification of the railways. When the train finally arrived, we piled on and found our seats. I felt emotionally washed out, itching to get out of this dreary dump and back to London. As the train departed I leaned my head against the window and felt the vibrations work their way into my brain. I couldn’t wait to see Emily.

I fell asleep somewhere between Milton Keynes and Watford Junction. When I woke up we were pulling into Euston and I had a cold trail of dribble running from my lip to my chin. I wiped it away, looking around surreptitiously to see if anyone had noticed. I felt rough, my head sore where I’d been leaning against the window, pictures from my mobile dreams still lingering: Mum, staring out the window; Emily, giggling as I kissed her belly and thighs. I wiped my chin again and noticed a girl smirking at me, but I didn’t care. Thoughts of Emily had galvanised me; I would see her later, I thought, and we could crawl back into our bed-linen Anderson Shelter.