And with that she took Ava by the hand and hurried out, with Ava protesting loudly that some sweets really would have made her knee feel better and maybe they could find a shop that was a bit cheaper on the way home.

Once they had gone I said to Mark, ‘I hope that isn’t a sign of things to come. That woman looked exhausted. Also, it didn’t seem the smartest thing to do to leave a hot iron somewhere where the kid could get to it.’

‘Sounded like one of those freak accidents to me,’ Mark said. ‘I wouldn’t rush to judgement. She’s probably doing her best.’

‘Who was she, anyway? Not an old flame, I hope?’

I said it as a joke. I’d seen pictures of Mark’s college girlfriends – long-haired, pretty, sporty girls, girls he would have enjoyed showing off. It never would have occurred to me that he might have history with a worn-out blonde with an inch of dark at the roots, who’d gone out in jogging bottoms and trainers but looked like she only ever ran anywhere if she was late.

‘She’s a hairdresser,’ Mark said.

‘Really? She didn’t exactly look the part. Maybe she’s on a career break.’

‘Maybe.’

‘If I let myself go like that, will you tell me, so I can do something about it?’

Mark didn’t smile. Maybe I had been too mean. I hadn’t intended to be harsh – but I really didn’t want to end up like that. Looking so harassed, so overburdened – so much as if it was all down to me.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you,’ he said, and I went back to browsing the magazines and forgot all about it.

Thirteen

Ellie

That first night in France I dropped off almost instantly, then surfaced to find Ava standing by her bed in her pyjamas and folding back the covers. I wanted to speak to her but couldn’t rouse myself enough, and maybe it was half a dream anyway. Then I fell back asleep even more deeply than before.

When I came to again the bedroom was middle-of-the-night dark, and the long net curtains were stirring in the breeze from the sea; we’d left the French windows slightly open. Someone else was standing there, in the darkness, between my bed and Ava’s, close enough to reach out and touch.

A girl. She was younger than me, perhaps five years old. I couldn’t make out what she was wearing in the gloom; a nightie perhaps. She was rubbing her hands together as if she was cold, even though the room was warm, and she had her back turned to me and was humming a tune I didn’t quite recognise. Maybe it was a theme tune to a children’s programme I’d liked myself a few years ago, but had grown out of.

She was there and not-there. I couldn’t move, so I had no way of finding out what would happen if I tried to make contact – if she’d just disappear, or if she’d turn round and start talking. And then she slipped away, or I slipped away, and sank back into my dreams.