In some strange parallel, inside was a letter and a card, the first of which was indeed from Ollie, her oldest childhood friend. His handwriting was as messy as ever, which would have been funny if not for the words.

Dear Lottie,

I hate sending you this, because I know you don’t want it and I thought about throwing it in the bin and not even bothering you with it, but then I thought that if I was you, which I’m not obviously, but if I was, I’d want to be prepared, so here it is and I’m sorry. Feel free to throw it away. If he comes round, I’ll tell him to go away.

Apologies again. Hope you’re OK.

Your pal (who will absolutely throw an egg at anyone if you asked him to) – Ollie

Blinking, she slowly removed the card from the envelope, the smell and the memories getting stronger. In gaudy yellow text surrounded by a beach covered in palm trees the postcard read Havana. She knew who it was from and what it meant, her eyes skimming the words in time with her thumping heartbeat.

You have not been living in the old house.

Thump!

It’s become necessary to sell it.

Thump!

Your father.

A world she’d locked away came tapping on the door, asking to be let in again.

Like a phantom coming back to haunt her, the room filled with the smell of cheap alcohol that could almost be mistaken for hairspray and with it came a flash of shutter-speed memories: crying on the baggy trouser legs of a gloomy unshaven man, her mother’s sold belongings, the bedding at Ollie’s house when they took her in, the first time she saw her stepmother’s blood-red hair, the quiet in the attic when she was all alone.

Lottie blinked, unsure how long she’d been gazing into nothing.

‘This is useless to me,’ she said simply, locking her eyes with Binah as if expecting her to agree.

Binah, having clearly read the card, stared at her with curious confusion, her mind untangling the scene in front of her. ‘Perhaps if you told Ellie about this, and Claude’s letters,’ she offered, testing the waters. ‘It seems like something you should be tackling together.’

‘No.’ Lottie stood up, stony-faced, and shoved the postcard in her bag with all the care one might give a used tissue.

‘But, Lottie, that postcard is –’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

It was impossible for Lottie to pinpoint what was happening in her mind. The door slammed shut as she bolted up the memories and locked them away again. That wasn’t her life any more. As long as she could be useful to the Wolfsons that would never have to be her life again. She just had to stay focused.