After the briefest of pauses, Ed Gemmell looked up for confirmation. “You’re talking about you and not making some oblique reference to extreme body odor or an overabundance of social insecurities. Right?”

“Two out of three. You smell lovely, Ed.”

Susan’s rage-fueled steps had propelled her almost to J-block by the time the others caught up.

Within three seconds, Esther said, “Soooooo . . . you and McGraw?”

“Nope.” Susan wasn’t in the mood.

“Fine. If you’re not going to tell us, then we’ll have to draw our own conclusions, won’t we, Daisy?”

“We will?”

There was nothing that could stem the tide, and Esther dogged Susan’s every step with wild and inaccurate theories about the nature of Susan’s history with McGraw. Trudging up the stairs, Susan was bombarded with speculation. They were ex-lovers whose passion had been torn asunder by a misunderstanding. Their families were engaged in a blood feud so ancient, none knew where or when it had taken root. McGraw was a hapless, lovelorn sap who’d followed his indifferent object of affection all the way to higher education. He was a robot sent from the future . . .

And on. And on.

But the harder Esther pushed, the tighter Susan’s lips drew. Her mouth had narrowed to a short, tense, little line by the time they reached the fourth-floor fire doors, which were adorned with a certificate declaring the corridor safe.

“This is me.” Susan pushed open the door to number 13, walked inside, and locked it behind her before her friends could follow. She couldn’t take any more. Not now. Not ever. Past and present were two different countries, and she’d burned her metaphorical passport the second she’d set foot on the train.

Homeschooling had prepared Daisy for a lot of things. She knew everyone in her village by name and could do all kinds of things that the national curriculum never thought to address, such as tend a vegetable patch, change the oil in a car, and reprogram a broken Freeview box. But being practical in these areas didn’t help when it came to solving people problems. You didn’t need to talk to vegetables, cars, and Freeview boxes to work out what was wrong with them. (Although Daisy often did.)

There were some things that only mass exposure to one’s peers could prepare you for, and the vagaries of friendship were among them.

“Do you think Susan’s all right?” she asked Esther.

“No. I think she’s pathologically secretive.” Esther sighed. “And it’s killing me.”

Daisy folded Esther into a gentle hug. It must be hard for someone who wore her giant, generous heart on her sleeve to understand why anyone would want to keep her own counsel.

“People are different,” Daisy said.

“But we’re her friends. She should tell us everything. All in one go. Like transferring all your photos to a new phone.”