‘We couldn’t stay here, it’s too small. We’d have to find somewhere bigger.’ Could he really live in two places? What if they moved to one of the new builds he’d been working on? Then he could see Jamie whenever he liked, every day, every week, fit it around living with Maddy and the girls. They were used to him being away; it wouldn’t need to affect them. He’d be able to take Jamie to football matches, the park, all sorts. But he’d have to find a deposit. Shouldn’t be too tricky getting a mortgage as Maddy’s house was all paid for when her dad died. Maybe it was possible to make this work without anyone getting hurt.

Alison pulled a photo album out of a cupboard and spread it across both their laps. She flicked through photos of Jamie as a baby. Max thought about the day Emily was born, how he’d felt holding her, the elation at her being his firstborn. But now that was wrong. History had been rewritten.

‘And this is Jamie at eleven months…’ Ali’s voice drifted in and out. He and Maddy had taken an almost identical set of photos of their family. Each a precious and unique moment. Ali pulled on his sleeve.

‘Are you okay? You look tired.’

The album was closed. Had he dozed off for a second or two?

‘I need some air.’ He let himself out onto the patio and leaned over the side of the brick barbeque as the ground swam in front of his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Four

Alison: November 2019

By the time Alison reaches work, the Saturday ladies are in. One is on the till and the other is tidying up a rack of books. Rob is at the back, dragging in black bags full of clothes and toys people have left by the service door. A plastic sword trails out of one behind him.

In the sorting room, piles of donations spill out of stacked boxes on every surface. Alison steps over a cowboy hat that has slipped off a pile of coats. A mustiness lingers in the air no matter how long they leave the back door open or spray air-fresheners; it never seems to go. They deal with the remnants of people’s lives, things no longer wanted, thrown or neatly folded into bin liners, not always washed or wiped. Occasionally she takes home a bundle to wash. Grey water twists and turns the garments in the washing machine, rinsing out people’s last remains.

Rob pulls up a chair for her. She sits down, coat touching the floor, her suede handbag curls into her lap like a sleeping cat.

‘He’s left me, I’m sure of it,’ she says, caressing her bump.

‘What’s brought this on?’