She must have had boyfriends, but if she did I never knew about them. Sometimes I’d wonder if any of the men at these parties – loud and laughing and swigging from supermarket-brand cans of lager – were more than just her friends. It would give me a hot angry feeling in my stomach; I didn’t miss James, my stepdad, and certainly didn’t want another.

I remember I’d been worried about the clown from my birthday party. For a while it seemed like he came to every single one of Mum’s soirees, and too often I saw the two of them in corners, standing close and laughing.

‘You’re a clown,’ I said once, aiming for mean when Mum sat him down to pick a card.

But he just laughed and winked, flashing that left canine, more than three-quarters gold. ‘Only on my days off.’

‘He’s an actor,’ Mum said, cheeks glowing and eyes happy-bright. ‘He’s going to play Javert in Les Mis at the Pavilion next month.’

I rolled my eyes when Mum gave him that smile she practised over and over in her dressing-table mirror.

‘It’s the eight of clubs,’ I said, sullen and resentful. And everyone had cheered and oohed and aahed like they always did. Mum smiling and happy like she always was; getting even brighter under all the applause and wonder.

‘See how clever she is, my daughter? How special, and she doesn’t even know it.’

‘Hello?’

I jump, nearly drop the phone.

‘Sorry, yes I’m still here.’

‘Your mum died in November? Is that correct?’

‘I, uh, yeah. I haven’t been well. So … there was a delay in me becoming executor. But I’ve opened an estate bank account now, and I was wondering how long it’s going to take to transfer the balance?’

‘It’s currently being processed. With any luck within the next ten to fifteen days.’

‘Okay.’ I smile in an attempt to match her cheerfulness. ‘Thank you.’

I hang up, and turn round. Even though it’s only late afternoon, the phone box’s interior light is on, a harsh bright yellow that makes the street and road beyond seem suddenly much darker.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles when I realise that someone is standing across the road from the phone box, staring at me. I’m exposed inside this box of dirty yellow light like a spotlight on a stage. The day has grown too dark to make out who, so I move towards the door, wiping the condensation away with my sleeve. It’s Sheena MacDonald, her long dark hair soaking wet and flat against her cheeks. I let out a relieved breath.

When someone starts battering their fists against the phone box’s door, I scream. High and wild enough that it scares me more – how alien the scream sounds, as if it can’t belong to me. The door is wrenched open, admitting a cold blast of air and a roar of expletives. I recognise Alec’s voice before I see his face: puce and gritted, eyes blazing.