What has my life come to? she thought. This time last week she was taking Frankie to feed the ducks and wondering when her next editing job would come along so she could get back to work, to escape the long, slow company of toddlers. Now she knew she would gladly never work again, just to have Frankie back. Even if Sean’s salary evaporated into nothing and they were on the poverty line, she wouldn’t want to let Frankie out of her sight, ever again. She would forget about her career. She would watch Dora the Explorer on a continuous loop, play hundreds of games of I Spy and read board books all day until her eyeballs bled, the ones that she always thought of as ‘bored’ books and which previously made her want to die of boredom. Anything, she begged the God in which she had long ago stopped believing. I’ll do anything to get Frankie back again.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to get dressed instead of waiting in front of the computer screen. When she came – reluctantly – back downstairs, Eileen was sitting at the kitchen table knitting something revolting-looking. Frothy hanks of pastel wool cascaded off the edge of the table and her hands moved so fast that they were a blur. She knitted as though she was accusing someone of something terrible, Helen thought.

Eileen gave her a look that said ‘and what time do you call this to get dressed, when your mother-in-law’s here, and your baby is missing?’ Helen decided to at least attempt a charm offensive.

‘Eileen, thank you so much for coming. I’m sorry I didn’t say hello properly before, it’s all been a bit . . . overwhelming, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ She leaned over and gave Eileen a brief hug. ‘It’s really kind of you.’

‘Thank you, Helen, love, of course I had to come. I couldn’t sit at home doing nothing with that little lamb God knows where, and now the news of poor little Izzy Hartley . . .’ She dissolved into loud snotty sobs, and Helen tore off some kitchen roll and handed it to her. She had aged since they last saw her, Helen thought, studying her mother-in-law’s broken veined cheeks and sunken eyes. Too much smoking had left fissures all around her mouth, and a general dissatisfaction at the way her life had gone had etched crevices in her forehead and carved deep frown lines between her eyebrows. She was sixty-five but looked more like late seventies.

‘I know. It’s unspeakable,’ Helen said. ‘But we just have to keep hoping and praying the police will find her.’ She was amazed that she managed to keep her voice steady and her eyes dry, but she found that Eileen’s hysteria helped keep her detached.

‘So, how have you been? It’s been ages.’