‘You didn’t bank them or, I don’t know, give them to Grace or her family?’

He looks at me. ‘As far as I was aware, the money was yours. I was holding it for you. As it happens she didn’t ever ask me for it and even if she had, I’m not sure I would have given it to her.’

I take a breath and try and process what I am being told. The money is still here. Improbably, after all these years. A flood of warmth towards Seb for his friendship, for his reliability, fills me.

‘Where is it? Can I see it?’

‘It’s in the loft. See it whenever you like.’

‘Can we go now?’

‘Now? Really?’ he says and waits. He reads my expression. ‘Okay. Come on then.’

We walk along the corridor and up the stairs. At the top flight he pauses, looking for something. I do not know what until he emerges from a room with it in his hand: a fishing pole for pulling down the hatch. He looks up to spear the catch, and then a ladder slides smoothly down.

‘I’ll go first and stick the lights on,’ he says, and climbs up. I follow him. The loft is boarded with plywood and is neat and tidy, as lofts go. There is dust, but there are patches where it has been unsettled recently. I watch as he ducks his way across and under the beams. When he stops he looks around and beckons me over.

‘Here,’ he says.

As I trace his path on my way to him, I see something that catches at a memory. There is a small cardboard box, like a gift box. The memory of it pierces me. I hold it up to Seb.

‘This yours?’ I ask.

He squints at the box and says, ‘No, that’s one of yours, isn’t it? One of the bits you left. Police took a couple in the search until I got them out. I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop them. Shit, look at the mess they’ve left.’ He looks around at the upturned boxes and sticks of broken furniture.

I look at the box in my hand and see trinkets in there from a past life. A miniature doll with the head of a cat. A polished green stone that Grace gave me. A ticket for a concert. Some plastic gold coins. And beneath it all, a small volume of Proust. I pick it out and stare at this thing of mine from a third of a century ago.

‘Xand?’ Seb calls then. He is waiting for me.