‘Frances Burke. Fran.’

‘Say sorry to Fran for going into her garden.’

‘I don’t mind visitors,’ Fran says to Sophie, ‘but you must ask your mum first. OK?’

Sophie nods and walks across Fran’s lawn towards her gate. She doesn’t say sorry, but I’m choosing my battles this evening. I say it instead.

‘Sorry about that – I got a fright when I couldn’t find her.’ I laugh to show her I’m not the kind of mother who panics over losing sight of her child for half a minute. Even if that’s exactly who I am.

Fran nods. She’s in her early fifties, tall and solid, sweating in the evening sun, with wisps of fair hair escaping an untidy ponytail. She’s wearing an olive-green t-shirt and the kind of too-long boot-leg jeans I haven’t seen on anyone since 2008. Her feet are in brown leather sandals with thick buckled straps and she gives off an air of sensible practicality.

‘Of course. I don’t have children but I can imagine. Is it just the one you have?’ She nods towards Sophie, who is making her way slowly along the footpath from Fran’s front gate to ours.

‘No, two older ones as well – Emily is eleven, and Ben is nine. Both inside finishing homework.’ I realize I haven’t introduced myself. ‘Sorry, I’m Joanna, by the way.’

‘Lovely to meet you, and welcome to Rowanbrook.’ She nods towards our house. ‘They’re grand family homes. The previous owners did a nice job smartening up the outside to sell it.’

‘They sure did. It’s the inside that needs work … someone was clearly fond of a dark palette. But nothing we can’t fix over time.’

‘Exactly. And it’s a great neighbourhood, very friendly.’

‘Oh, that’s good to hear – we haven’t really met people yet.’

‘Well, now you’ve met me. The people on your other side are gone already to their place in Marbella, so you won’t meet them till September.’

‘Are you here long yourself?’

Sophie arrives beside me, slipping her hand into mine.

‘My whole life,’ Fran answers. ‘Apart from a brief escape to a flat in Harold’s Cross.’

‘Wow, that’s a long time!’ I tell her, before realizing how it sounds. Fran doesn’t seem to mind.

‘It is. I came back to look after my mother – just for a few weeks until we figured out a long-term plan. That was twenty-five years ago.’

‘Wow,’ I say again, trying to gauge if this is a sad story or a happy story or most likely an it-is-what-it-is, perfectly fine story.

‘When my mother passed away, she left me the house, so here I am, still watering her rose bushes. Just me and him.’ She nods towards a huge black cat who’s watching from the porch. She laughs. ‘That sounds a bit maudlin, doesn’t it? Like I’m a lonely cat woman. I took voluntary redundancy from work a few months ago, so all this’ – she sweeps her hand around the garden – ‘is a relatively new pastime. What do you do yourself?’