She stood still for a while, being knocked and bumped by the Christmas crowds, then began to plod slowly down the hill, head bowed, without any of her intended purchases. Once she turned the corner into Tessa’s road, leaving the roar of the high street behind her, she was aware of her phone ringing. Fumbling as she tried to extricate it from her coat pocket – where it was tangled in a tissue and the house keys – she pressed the green button frantically over and over. But the caller had clicked off. Caty. Tears of frustration clouding her vision, Connie immediately returned the call, but her daughter didn’t answer and it went eventually to voicemail. Noo, she wailed silently, staring at the screen in disbelief. She didn’t walk on immediately, as if the very fact of her stillness would enable Caitlin to get through. She tried the number a couple more times, but with the same depressing result. It was like being starving hungry, a delicious bite of something dangled before her, then snatched away before she could taste it.

The house was gloomy, silent, and she felt something go inside her: she had completely run out of steam. Struggling out of her coat, she lit the gas fire with a wobbly hand. Grabbing the throw, she flung herself down on the sofa and curled up into a ball, the cat in the crook of her knees, her head on a gold satin cushion, slippery and cold beneath her cheek. She was beyond tears as she lay listening to Monty’s soft snores, the hiss of the gas-fire, the tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Cars braked for the sleeping policeman in the road outside the house, then accelerated away; footsteps tapped along the pavement, sometimes accompanied by snatches of chatter; the mohair from the throw tickled her nose. But inside her there was only numb silence.

Lulled by the warmth from the fire and the cat’s comforting proximity, Connie dozed. When she woke the clock said it was just past five. She rolled onto her back, dislodging Monty, who scrabbled and jumped heavily over her legs onto the floor. I ought to feed him, she thought, reluctantly dragging herself upright, still groggy from the daytime nap.

Turning on the kitchen light, she washed Monty’s bowl and took a new pouch from the row of cat food Tessa had left beside the kettle, Monty purring and threading himself in and out of her legs in anticipation. As she was lifting a fork from the drawer, her mobile blared. Since the earlier missed call, she had ramped up the ring to the loudest possible, dreading another disappointment.

She dropped the pouch and the fork, racing to pick up the phone pulsating on the coffee table. Caty, she thought.

‘Ash?’ She was taken aback. He seldom called and she instantly worried it boded no good.

‘Hi, Connie.’ Her son-in-law sounded cautious, but friendly. ‘How are you?’