I shuddered at the thought of a man like Bob crying. ‘Are you going to tell your mum?’ I asked.

‘Dad told me not to because she’d be upset. You mustn’t tell anyone. You need to keep it a secret. Blood sister’s promise.’

‘Promise,’ I said and we pulled our fingers away.

I hated the thought of keeping a secret from Mum only slightly less than I hated what Jill’s dad had done to her. But a blood sister’s promise meant keeping my word.

Bob didn’t keep his. And by the end of the summer I’d caved in too and told my mum what was happening. I don’t know what she did about it but shortly after that we were gone.

My stomach churns as I turn on to the gravel lane that leads to the pub. Overgrown plants trail and wither on either side of the track and as I get closer to the building I can see how unloved it looks. Paint is peeling off the windowsill into curled strips that only need a light tug before the whole lot could be ripped off.

I knock on the side door, my heart thumping in time with the beat. It takes a moment for a figure to pass the obscured glass but eventually three bolts clank and the door slowly opens. On the other side of it is a shadow of Jill’s mum. Ruth Taylor’s eyes are hollow and rimmed dark underneath. Her hair is almost entirely grey, with a thin fringe, and falls just above her shoulders. ‘I don’t want to talk to any more press.’ She stares at me with a frown that creases her sad eyes, though she doesn’t make a move to close the door, and I wonder if actually she would quite like to talk to someone. She looks at me more intently and I can see there is recognition.

‘I’m Stella,’ I say, smiling.

‘Oh my!’ She holds a hand over her mouth as the frown disappears. ‘I haven’t seen you in years.’

‘No. And I’m sorry to turn up unannounced. I hope you don’t mind me coming by, only—’ I break off, watching her expression carefully. ‘Only I’ve just heard about Jill.’

Ruth’s face falls again but she opens the door wider and stands aside for me to enter. She gestures me into their open-plan back room that sits behind the pub. Not much has changed. A large TV hangs on a wall over the fireplace but the kitchen has the same eighties look with its red leather bar stools and red and white splashback. Like Annie’s, I find it surprising how, inside their walls, they are almost frozen in time.

Ruth drops into a chair and, not knowing what else to do, I sit too. ‘Bob’s not here,’ she says.

‘That’s good,’ I reply without thinking, ‘I mean, I—’