A waitress interrupts, come to take our order. I start by saying I only want a black coffee, but when Alastair orders a whole meal, I pick up the menu again and make myself order a sandwich.

When the waitress leaves, I realize Alastair is frowning at me. ‘What do you mean, “estranged”?’

‘I thought … because …’ I stumble over my words. ‘You said she didn’t want to introduce them to you.’

Alastair lets out a short, painful laugh. ‘But that was because of me. It must have been. Sarah was so close to her parents. My God, Jenn, you’ve no idea. That was what made it so much worse. She absolutely adored them, went to see them all the time. Practically every month, she’d disappear off there. Always calling them on the phone in between. She absolutely loved them. They adored her. The way she talked about them – like they were the best parents in the world.’

‘Then … then why weren’t they there when she died? They didn’t come, Alastair. They weren’t at her funeral.’

Alastair is shaking his head, looking down at his menu again. ‘I’m telling you, when I knew her, they weren’t estranged.’

There’s an awkwardness that has come over us. Because I’m so confused by what he has said. Because all this information isn’t adding up. That image of the house torn down. And yet … and yet … I press my fingers to my temples. Didn’t Marianne say exactly the same thing? She was close to her parents, talked about them a lot. Don’t you remember that photograph on her desk? And that pretty placard in her flat. Family Is The Dearest Thing. When Alastair knew her, she saw them, visited them, spoke to them all the time. Did something change since then – so suddenly? Did something happen so close to when she died?

The waitress brings our drinks and food. My coffee and a Coke for him. Now I find myself, stupidly, wondering why he doesn’t drink. Wondering if maybe he has a problem with alcohol; it’s not as if he’s working today. I can feel myself trying to pick faults in him. Discredit him just because he’s been nice. The smell of the food catches in my throat. For a moment, I have to cover my nose. As Alastair lifts his cutlery he looks at me and I pick up my sandwich, ignoring the greasiness of the bread on my hands. I pinch off a corner, swallow it down.

Alastair takes a few mouthfuls of his – some kind of health-food salad – then he lays down his knife and fork.

‘Can I show you something?’ he says.

I swallow another pinch of my sandwich. ‘Of course.’

He reaches into his pocket. I wipe my hands on my napkin and watch as he pulls out his phone.