‘Really?’ Heather smiled again, but it felt forced this time. ‘We didn’t always get on so well, you know. I was a pain in the arse when I was a kid, as I’m sure she told you.’

‘Oh, not at all.’ Lillian brushed a piece of fluff from her sleeve. ‘Nothing but praise for her golden girl.’

Heather had the sudden impression that Lillian was lying, but she nodded anyway. The woman made to leave, squeezing her arm briefly as she came past.

‘If there’s anything you need, dear, just tell me. Like I said, I’m very close, always happy to bake or cook or even do laundry if you’re feeling overwhelmed …’ Heather followed her down the corridor like an errant schoolchild; she suspected people were often following Lillian about like this, dragged in her wake.

‘Oh, would you look at that?’ Lillian had stopped at a small side table in the hallway, where Colleen used to stack her post and keys each day. On it was a framed photograph of Heather. It showed her as a teenager, sitting on her bed in her old room. Tall and gangly, her dark hair hanging in her eyes, she was holding up a certificate of merit she’d been awarded at school; for an essay, a short story, Heather couldn’t remember. Seeing the photo gave her a tight feeling in her chest – it had been taken just a few weeks before her dad had died and everything between her and her mother had started to turn to poison.

‘That’s my favourite photo of you,’ said Lillian, sounding pleased for reasons Heather couldn’t guess at. ‘Isn’t it charming?’

Heather opened her mouth, uncertain what to say. In the photo she was wearing a black X-Files T-shirt that was too baggy on her, and she looked sulky. She had no idea why her mum had even framed it, let alone why this stranger was so taken with it.

‘Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’ The woman was already out of the door, her neat white shoes crunching on the gravel. ‘Remember, dear, anything you need, just let me know.’

Heather gathered up the post from the hallway carpet and chucked it on the kitchen counter. Lots of shiny leaflets, a few bills, several takeaway menus. Frowning, she separated out the stuff that would need attention, then dumped the rest in the bin. Something in the bottom of the bin had gone bad – some old bit of food, probably, the remains of her mother’s last dinner – and the waft of rotten meat made her stomach roll uncomfortably. Suddenly very close to being sick, Heather headed to the back door, sure that fresh air would make her feel better.