‘I sure did.’

‘Do you know anything about the little girl who went missing from here years ago, Lily Murphy?’ I manage to keep my voice surprisingly even. ‘It turns out she used to live in our new house.’

Adana’s eyes widen.

‘Oh God, Joanna. Really? Well, I guess all houses have history …’ She blows air into her cheeks. ‘That poor family. Remember they interviewed the father on TV? Heartbreaking. Oh, you were probably still living in London back then?’

‘Yeah … But you lived here, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, right here in Oakbrook at that point, so everyone knew about it.’

The twin housing estates, Rowanbrook and Oakbrook, were built in the early sixties, one on either side of a broad, tree-lined avenue in Edenvale, in South Dublin. Luxury homes for families who wanted suburban quiet, huge gardens and a choice of golf courses, but without drifting too far from the city centre’s glossy department stores and buzzy restaurants. Edenvale National School was in Oakbrook, and most kids from both estates went there, including Mark and Adana. By the time I met Adana at university, she’d moved from Oakbrook, and now lives just down the road in Dún Laoghaire.

‘What do you remember?’ I ask her now. ‘Bafflingly, Mark hardly remembers anything. And clearly did not know the house we were buying once belonged to Lily Murphy’s parents.’

‘I remember it being a big thing back then, but I’d be blurry on the details now.’ Adana tilts her head. ‘And, in Mark’s defence, I’d have had no idea which road in Rowanbrook they lived on, not to mind which house. Plus, he’d moved by then, hadn’t he? He was living over here in Oakbrook.’

I nod to confirm this as Liz Landry, another mum from the class, arrives and stands beside us. She’s taller than me even in her trainers, which I notice are that vegan brand everyone seems to have these days. Liz is an estate agent, and always gets the school-gate uniform just right – her dark brown hair is impervious to the breeze and she’s wearing giant silver earrings with grey tassels that almost reach her collar bone, and lipstick in a perfect shade of pink. I glance down at my shorts and flip-flops. Four weeks into stay-at-home motherhood; four weeks out of smart work dresses, and I’m still figuring out my own new uniform. As yet, nothing feels quite me.

‘Joanna,’ Liz says, ‘did I hear you’re moving house?’

‘You did – we’re in already, two weeks now.’

‘Is it Rowanbrook?’

I nod.

‘That’s where we are too – which cul-de-sac are you on?’

‘Oh, I didn’t realize! We’re on Rowanbrook Drive. Where are you?’

‘We’re Santa Cruz, one of the older bungalows just after you turn in from the main road, on Rowanbrook Grove. Had you much work to do on the house?’

‘It’s got a few quirks and the decor is a bit bleak, but nothing we can’t live with. We’re blessed really.’