Jem took up her mug and swallowed a mouthful of tea. She was full and cosy and just the right side of sleepy, and chatting to Rosie felt as comfortable as sitting in her pyjamas in front of the gas fire, though she wasn’t sure what Rosie would think about the analogy.

“Yeah, see, I like swimming, but the cold water doesn’t like me,” she said. “And the one and only time I went jogging, an octogenarian who’d lapped me twice made me sit on the park bench and almost called an ambulance.” She picked at a loose piece of the tabletop. “Maybe I should get a bike or something.”

“Or a wetsuit,” Rosie suggested. “If the cold is the only thing stopping you from swimming.”

“I’d stand out like a sore thumb in a public pool.”

“That bothers you, doesn’t it? Standing out?”

Jem didn’t shy away from the question. Her childhood had been a constant confusion of blending in and fighting for attention. Each new group home or temporary family had required her to toe the line and find her place within them, while the social workers pushed her to make herself unique, to give prospective parents a reason to want her. Even as a child, it hadn’t taken long for her to realise she stood out for all the wrong reasons.

“I’d rather be part of the crowd. It’s easier. But most of the time that doesn’t really work for me either.” She drained her mug and pulled out her statement. She didn’t want to seem pathetic, and neither did she want Rosie to think she was angling for sympathy. “I should get this finished.”

“Aye.” Rosie gathered the empty plates. “If you’ve got any space left, there’s cherry cobbler for dessert.”

Jem patted her belly. “I shouldn’t really. Are you having any?”

Rosie gave her a look. “We did CPR for ages and walked miles in the rain. Yes, I’m having pudding.” She waited a few seconds, as if sensing Jem’s crumbling resistance. “There’s custard,” she added.

“You swine,” Jem said, entirely without malice.

Rosie grinned, all teeth and triumph. “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Chapter Six

The vibration of Rosie’s mobile was as irritating as a low-flying wasp, its insistent drone dragging her from a nightmare whose sole distinct image had been a pallid, lifeless hand. She woke to more rain beating on the roof tiles, her mouth parched and her pulse drumming in her ears. The buzzing cut off before she could enter her passcode, but Stephanie Merritt’s number was top of the phone log, and Steph answered Rosie’s return call within two rings.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said, bright as a button. “What would you say to a bit of overtime?”