A few rows down, Scott Daniels stood up and looked around. He raised his hand in a wave and walked over. He had a black eye.

‘Been fighting?’ Tom said.

‘Five-a-side footie,’ Scott said. ‘We played some Mancs and you know what they’re like. It got a bit tasty.’

‘Really?’

‘Nah. I fell over and banged into my goalie’s elbow, but scrapping with Mancs sounds better.’

‘I’d stick to that story if I was you.’

‘Anyway – we’re playing tonight and we’re one short. Fancy a game?’

‘Have you seen me play football?’ Tom said. ‘You’d be better off with four men.’

‘You can just stand there and get in the way,’ Scott said. ‘And we’ll be having some beers after, if you’re in the mood.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ Tom said. ‘That I can take part in. But let me check with Alice. I don’t want to leave her in the lurch.’

‘Baby still not sleeping well?’

‘Not really.’ Tom shrugged. ‘But we’re getting used to it.’

He was still only getting four or so hours’ sleep a night, but he had found ways to work with it. Two days a week he worked from home, so could have the odd nap. It was another pandemic effect – everyone had switched to working from home and it had been fine, so it was hard for the company to say people couldn’t do it now. On the other days, he had found that a twenty-minute nap in the car was enough to take the edge off.

His phone started to ring. Scott glanced at it.

‘It’s Alice. She must be listening in somehow.’

‘Who knows?’ Tom said, and lifted his phone to his ear.

‘Tom.’ Alice sounded breathless. ‘Are you free?’

‘Not really. I’m at the office.’

‘I need you to come home. Now.’

He sat up. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’

‘Is it Jo?’

Scott frowned. Everything OK? he mouthed.

‘No. But you need to get back, as soon as you can.’

‘OK. I’ll leave now.’

He put his phone in his pocket and closed his laptop. ‘Gotta go.’

‘You’re white as a sheet,’ Scott said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘She didn’t say,’ Tom replied. ‘But it can’t be anything good.’

Alice

The letter had arrived with the morning post. She had noticed it as the address appeared as though it had been printed on a home printer. There was no branding, and there was a stamp affixed to the corner. It was that rarest of things these days: a private, personal letter.

It lay on the coffee table, face down, the words printed on the same home printer. She flipped it over and read it again.

Dear Ms Sark

Your news article caught my eye.