Fran searches for the group name, clicks to add herself and then sighs as a message appears on the screen saying something about moderator approval. She reaches for her phone to text Jenna, asking to be let in, then looks back at her screen. Facebook is telling her there are people she may know. Would she like to add them as friends?

Curious, she scrolls through the faces, raising her eyebrows at some of the suggestions. She’s not entirely sure how the algorithms have chosen her friends given she used her ‘throwaway’ email account to sign up (the one she uses to order shopping online), but a couple of the suggestions aren’t entirely wide of the mark. There are a couple of fellow teachers from school, her violin tutor and a woman who looks not dissimilar to her local florist. Did she give them her throwaway email for some reason? Facebook must have mined their contacts. Sneaky little thing.

She puts a hand to her laptop lid to close it then changes her mind. Would it hurt to enter someone’s name into the search bar at the top of the screen? Just to see a face from the past? It’s not that she’s lonely, per se, but if there’s one thing recent events have taught her it’s that life’s too short to live with regret.

Gunnar Saevarsson.

She types the name quickly and clicks on the magnifying glass before she can change her mind. Four Gunnar Saevarssons fill the screen but she spots her Gunnar right away. He’s grey, like her, balding a little at the temples and there’s a ruggedness to his once smooth skin. His smile’s not changed though, nor has the light in his eyes. Fran presses a hand to her chest, surprised by the flutter of emotion below her ribcage. Gunnar’s probably married, happily so. He’s probably forgotten who she even is. She clicks on his profile and scans his page.

Gunnar Saevarsson.

Works at: Professor of Epidemiology at London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine

Studies: Mathematics at University of Cambridge

Lives: London

Relationship Status: Divorced

She reads the last two lines again and the fluttering in her chest grows.

‘Stop it,’ she tells herself. ‘You’re being ridiculous. You’re fifty-one years old.’ But she moves the mouse over the message icon, clicks and types into the little box that pops up. Hello, old friend. How are you?

She clicks send before she can change her mind then almost jumps out of her skin as her laptop speakers ping with a notification. He can’t have replied already, surely? She’s barely drawn breath. No, of course not. It’s a notification from her throwaway email account telling her she’s received a new message from the genealogy site.