‘Yeah, I know, my lickle crusty gal—’ She couldn’t bear the smile on his face. She almost wanted to slap it off, that beautiful, happy smile full of love and trust, for what was going to happen to it.

‘Well, here’s the thing, love. It’s about Debbie’s dad.’

And she laid it out there, in only a few words.

Dale had big hands, and she watched them snap a wooden spoon he was drying in half without even realizing it. The stalk splintered through the dishcloth and pierced his finger; blood began to seep through the tartan pattern. They stopped everything for a few minutes while he sucked his finger and swore and she dabbed at it, applied a plaster. Then he pulled her to him, tight to his chest, and bent his head over hers.

‘Gross,’ said Debbie, wandering into the kitchen and sticking her head into the fridge.

And then they all came spilling back into her life. Fran, disappearing from view like a fading picture, somehow even more insubstantial and wispy now. Gaz, now also a dad, shaven-headed and into mountain biking. Spider, wizened in a ratty hoody. Xanthe hadn’t answered anyone’s messages, was presumably still in Greece. They met in Clio’s flat in Homerton, each of them advised to stagger their arrivals, although Fran, Spider and Sam ended up getting there at the same time. A very young South Asian guy let them in with a nod; he was distractingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful and she realized she’d been staring at his eyelashes for longer than was polite.

‘This is Hamza,’ Clio said, coming up behind him and wrapping an arm round his neck in a show of ownership. ‘He’s going now.’

‘Bye, ladies, gents.’ He winked as he left.

There was nowhere really to sit: a couple of beanbags on the floor or a low bed. There was no way she’d be able to get herself up from either of them again. Samantha did maths in her head and realized that Clio must be about forty now; even in the squat they’d had skip-stolen armchairs. She leaned awkwardly against the wall for a bit until Gaz noticed her, and stopped the general catch-up chat to pull her in a bar stool from the tiny kitchen.

‘How many weeks are you?’ he murmured, rubbing her back a little as he helped her into place. ‘Bout twenty, yeah? Halfway there. My missus was big with it too. Bit achy, innit? This seat OK for you?’

She hadn’t thought about Gaz at all in the last thirteen years, but if she had, he would have been the last person in this group she would have expected kindness from. Elevated above them, she swung her legs and listened to the conversation without really joining in. Which was just like it had always been.