She was unwilling to admit the reason ‒ that her Diazepam was about to kick in. It had been her only chance of getting any sleep since Frankie had gone.

. . . Thanks for messaging me. It’s good to hear from you.

Marion replied, See you at the gym, honey. You’ll get your princess back again soon. Hang in there. XXX

Sure, said Helen, brushing away a fat tear that dropped onto her keyboard. Bye XXX.

Then she sat still for a long time, thinking about the words she had almost sent her friend in a moment of honesty. She wanted sex so badly; craved its oblivion – but her only available option was currently staring blank-eyed at the TV screen downstairs, an almost-empty bottle of red wine beside him, his tongue stained black. Last time she had popped down to get a cup of tea, Sean had been watching Britain and Ireland’s Next Top Model, a programme that Alice loved, but that Sean would, under normal circumstances, rather scoop out his eyes with a spoon than watch voluntarily.

When had they last made love? It took her a moment to recall: it had been the day before Frankie was taken, a middle-of-the-night wordless quickie. The next evening in the restaurant she remembered wondering if she could already be pregnant. She recalled her feeling of pure heady happiness at the thought of another baby, sanctioned by Sean, a confirmation that their marriage was working and their family putting down deeper roots – and then, less than an hour later, everything was in pieces, as though a giant wrecking ball had come long and bashed their lives to shit, its huge hard smooth surface blotting out all light and future and hope . . . at least until Frankie came home.

She didn’t bother saying goodnight to Sean. Overcome by a huge tiredness, so great that she couldn’t even summon up the energy to trudge downstairs and tell him she was turning in, it just seemed easier to close her laptop lid, give her teeth a perfunctory brush, strip off all her clothes and collapse into bed in a drug-blurred haze.