Saskia’s two children, Olivia and Angus, are stood either side of her, dressed with military precision in their uniforms. Normally, Martha and Ava would look equally well presented, but Ava’s plait is looking a bit haphazard today and Martha’s slightly grimy collar suggests she could be wearing yesterday’s blouse. All four children go to Nightingales, a local primary school that’s only a five-minute walk away. Martha and Olivia are in the same class in year two, and usually best friends (except when they’re arch enemies). Ava is in year one – just 18 months younger than her sister – and Angus is the baby in reception.

‘Never mind me,’ Saskia says, too loudly for Beth. ‘What’s with the clandestine ride in a police car in the middle of the night? And don’t deny it. They could tattoo the word POLICE onto that man’s forehead and it wouldn’t be any more obvious.’

‘It was nothing—’

‘Wrong answer!’ Saskia cuts her off. ‘Come on, Beth, I want all the juicy details.’ She giggles and her eyes dance with curiosity. But not concern, Beth notices.

‘Okay, but keep your voice down,’ Beth says quietly. She hasn’t mentioned what happened last night to Martha and Ava; she doesn’t need them asking what squatting or overdosing means. ‘The girls don’t know.’

A look of concern wafts over Saskia’s face, as though she’s belatedly realised that Beth could have been involved in something genuinely traumatic. ‘Of course,’ she says, dropping her voice an octave. This new deference gives Beth a moment to collect her thoughts.

‘I was coming back from Soho,’ she finally says. ‘You know I was out with some of the mums from Ava’s class?’

Saskia nods. Micromanaging their families’ lives doesn’t mean they don’t have time to keep track of what the other is doing too.

‘I tend to walk home from the station via Bolingbroke Grove when it’s dark, which means passing the shops at the top of our road. And last night, outside the empty one …’

‘The old Delphine’s? With the squatters?’

‘There was this man, unconscious, just outside the front door. Like he’d walked out of the shop and collapsed.’

‘Shit,’ Saskia exhales. ‘So you phoned the police?’

‘No,’ Beth says, furrowing her brow. ‘I phoned for an ambulance, and followed all their instructions. The police came after.’

‘And was he okay, the man?’

Beth shakes her head. Her earlier frustration with controlling her bodily functions has returned because her eyes are getting hot. She blinks them a few times and pushes her lips together.

‘He died? Wow, Beth, poor you. Talk about wrong time, wrong place. But you did what you could, and phoning for an ambulance is hero-level stuff. How are you feeling now?’