I type ‘Gavin’ into my laptop. ‘What’s his surname?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘Can’t remember now. It’ll come back.’

I delete Gavin from my Google search bar. There is one more name to try, and I do, wondering about resemblance and nicknames and ages and dates. But as usual, nothing at all comes up. As far as the internet is concerned, Lila Kirk is a ghost.

13

June 2018

THE CAFE SMELLS OF coffee cake and warm vanilla, and it’s busy for a Tuesday morning. Stacks of pancakes and plates of smashed avocado whizz past as I sit reading the menu. I’m early. Cora is right on time. At ten on the dot, she pushes through the door, blinking at the shift from bright sunshine to dimmer interior. Spotting me, she waves enthusiastically, descending on the table as though it’s water in the desert.

I smile hello, taking in my new neighbour again. Cora’s narrow forehead is mostly unlined but has a translucent, papery quality, hinting at an indoor existence. Her small eyes are like raisins, either side of a sharp nose, and her mouth has a permanently pursed look. She’s wearing a bright cerise-pink jumper that fits neither the heatwave nor the twenty-first century, and her pine-green denim jacket.

‘Hello! Delighted to see you again!’ she says, sitting opposite, gazing at me. ‘I have a feeling we’re going to get along brilliantly.’

This makes me squirm, but on the scale of things about which I feel guilty, it’s pretty low. ‘Thanks for meeting me. You know when you’re new and you just want to get a sense of the place and the people …’

‘Oh, I do! I remember when I first moved into the flat in Ranelagh. Let’s see … that was 2005. Or was it 2004? I’d just started in a call centre, different one to the one I’m in today, and—’ Cora is interrupted by a woman who swoops down to take our order. She knows Cora by name and greets her with a smile. She asks her how she’s settling back to Rowanbrook, then swishes away. Giving silent thanks for the interruption, I jump in.

‘Yes, so, I’m looking forward to hearing about Rowanbrook, and especially what it was like back when you were growing up. I imagine it was idyllic – in and out of each other’s houses, playing on the green?’

Cora’s raisin-eyes narrow. I’ve gone too far, too soon. The clunk of the coffee grinder and the sound of a baby’s cry at a nearby table punctuate an awkward silence. But then Cora smiles.

‘Idyllic. That’s a nice word.’

‘Lots of friends your own age?’ I try.

‘Oh, friends of all ages. Back then you played with everyone. I didn’t have any siblings, so I relied on other kids,’ she says, as our drinks arrive. A latte for me and a hot chocolate with whipped cream for her.

‘I’m an only child too.’ At least, I am now. ‘Did you ever wish you had siblings?’