She left Sean tenderly wiping the water off his daughter’s face with his sleeve, and tore towards the garden. The patio doors were locked, so she ran to the kitchen door – despite her explicit instructions, it was unlocked. Flicking on the deck lights, she flung open the door and ran in mad circles around the garden, searching every dark bush and flowerbed, even up the old pear tree, in the shed, the garage, under the table tennis table, calling Frankie’s name so loudly that lights began to pop on in the bedrooms of the neighbouring houses.

She’d run back inside, where Alice was now sitting up on the sofa, rubbing her face, dazed.

She could hear Sean’s footsteps upstairs, as if he was repeating her search, like he wouldn’t believe Frankie was gone until he’d seen it for himself.

Helen had stopped still for a moment, as if the enormity of the situation had landed on her like an anvil, pinning her to the spot. Then nausea had begun to erupt without warning from the pit of her stomach, and she turned to run for the downstairs loo. She didn’t make it – her hand was on the door handle about to pull it but the force of the explosion made any further movement impossible. Vomit had gushed all over the patterned carpet runner on the hall floor, filling up the gaps between the floorboards and splattering all over the loo door, a dark red despairing stain of coq au vin, crème brûlée, champagne, red wine, a reverse celebration, a mockery of the joy she had felt just an hour earlier now dripping down the walls.

Sean hadn’t paused to rub her back or coo blandishments, the way he normally did when she was sick – but that was fine. She’d have screamed at him if he’d tried. He was on his mobile and out of the front door, shouting Frankie’s name amongst the dark shapes of parked cars, behind front fences and up driveways.

Helen staggered into the kitchen, not even thinking of clearing up the mess she had just made. She wiped her face with kitchen towel, panting with terror and nausea, then made herself sip some water straight from the tap. When she bent her head to drink, her pulse pounded so hard in her temples that she had to hold onto the sink to keep herself standing upright.

‘Don’t panic, don’t panic, she’ll be fine,’ she muttered in the direction of the fridge door, decorated with Frankie’s daubings. ‘She has to be. She’s just wandered off. Not taken, no. Not taken.’