It slips in easily and I pause for a moment, my pulse starting to flutter as I realise I am nervous about walking back into the house after so many weeks away. I take a deep breath and push the door open, a huge pile of mail behind it catching on the mat, meaning I have to use my shoulder to force a gap wide enough to get in. The air smells stale where the house has been closed up for almost two months, and dust motes dance in the air as the sunlight streams into the living room through the window. I stoop down to collect up the post, a thick sheaf of pizza delivery leaflets, political canvassing, some bills, and three thin sheets of writing paper, neatly folded in half. I throw the other pieces onto the tiny telephone table and with a guilty lurch, open the first sheet of paper.

It’s an apology from Ruth, saying sorry for the way she behaved, and could Fran find it in her heart to forgive her? I fold it in half and lay it on top of the post pile, before opening the next. It’s more of the same – Ruth tells Fran in slightly more detail this time how sorry she is, and how all she ever wanted was to help. I open the third, expecting to see more apologies, but this one simply reads, ‘You never deserved her anyway,’ although whether she’s referring to herself, or to Laurel I have no idea. The woman is delusional. I screw it up, and then after a moment’s pause, reach for the other two and screw them up too, stuffing them deep into my pockets. Fran doesn’t need to see these, just like she doesn’t need to know what Pamela has been saying.

As I comb through the rest of the mail, selecting out only the things Fran will need to deal with and discarding all the rest, I notice the light on the old-fashioned answer machine is flashing. I hover over the machine, unsure whether I still have the right to press the play button and take the message for Fran. I wouldn’t have hesitated before, it was just part of my job, but I don’t fit in anymore, and I don’t belong here in this house, not without Laurel. As I hover, finger poised, the phone shrieks into life, the ringtone making me jump and I snatch up the receiver in an instinctive gesture.

‘Francesca?’ The voice on the other end of the phone is plummy, and the line hisses slightly, as if they are calling long-distance. ‘Is that you? Why haven’t you been answering the telephone?’

This must be who has left the messages for Fran. The light still blinks at me out the corner of my eye. ‘I’m sorry. Fran isn’t here at the moment. This is Anna, can I take a message?’