‘I’ve seen lots of temps come and go,’ she continues, ‘but Sarah was … Well, she was exceptionally pretty, of course, for a start. Those blue eyes.’ She looks up at me. ‘You remember?’

I can feel my stomach tightening. It’s sort of strange, the way Marianne is talking. ‘I guess so.’

‘Well then, you know what I mean.’

Maybe. I suppose I do. It’s true, Sarah was very pretty.

‘And she was very outgoing. You know. It was always cheerful in the office when she was around. She got on with everyone. Although … her main friends were elsewhere. She was part of a big group, outside of work.’

I can feel a hesitation; a little part of me that isn’t sure. ‘I know I don’t remember her as shy or lonely. I mean, at least … she never seemed that way.’

‘The opposite. She made friends with everyone. Maybe you wouldn’t have been aware of that. You tended to keep yourself to yourself.’

I feel my cheeks flush. She’s right of course, and how could I think she hadn’t noticed back then? As though she wouldn’t have seen that in me, how reticent I was, how closed off. Pretending it was professional boundaries, nothing more. Making out to the world there was nothing I needed.

Marianne leans her cheek into her palm. ‘She had a beautiful singing voice as well. That time she sang at the Christmas party … I told her she could have been a professional, but she just laughed it off. She was beautiful and talented, and so lovely with it.’

‘Singing? I don’t think I ever … If it was at a party, I guess I wasn’t there.’

‘Look,’ she says. ‘I got this out to show you.’ She lifts something from the pile of papers at her elbow. An envelope, creased around the edges. Its flap hangs open. She pushes it across the table to me and I take it from her.

Inside there’s a card. It sticks a little as I pull it out. There’s a bright design of presents and stars with Happy Birthday written underneath. It’s the sort of card you might find in any corner shop. I open it up. There’s a message in loopy, swirling handwriting.

Dear Marianne, Wishing you a lovely day, Love Sarah.

I look up. Marianne is smiling again. Her eyes are shining. ‘She wrote that for me.’

And you kept it, I think. You treasured it. Gently, I slide the card back in its envelope and hand it back across the table. She takes it and holds it in front of her with both hands. I have the sense of something then: how Marianne’s impression of Sarah seems strangely skewed. As though she saw her through a rose-tinted lens. But maybe it was just that Sarah had that effect on people.