‘Oi,’ he shouts, stepping forward. But the man disappears behind the hedge. I watch as Tom darts down the driveway in pursuit. ‘Hey! Wait!’ When he reaches the entrance he stops, looks back at us and shrugs. ‘He’s gone.’

8

Lorna

LORNA WATCHES AS TOM HURRIES TOWARDS THEM. WHEN he reaches Saffy he drapes an arm protectively around her shoulders, and she feels a pang of envy at the bond they obviously share. It was the same with her and Euan, once. But having a baby when they were both still kids themselves took its toll on their relationship. Saffy looks cute in her oversized dungarees, biting her lip. She was always doing that as a kid. Lorna was forever telling her to stop.

‘That was weird,’ Tom says, sounding out of breath. ‘He must be a journalist but why run away when I confronted him? Why not ask us questions?’

Lorna hands him the dog lead with relief. She’s never had an affinity with animals.

Saffy’s face is pinched with concern. ‘I’ve seen him before. The other day,’ she says. She already knows her daughter will be making more of this. Her imagination running wild. Her little worrier. When she was four she got it into her head that a monster or dragon could get into their flat, and Lorna had sat on the edge of Saffy’s bed, every night for a few months, convincing her it wasn’t possible.

‘Honey, it will just be another reporter,’ she says, squeezing Saffy’s upper arm gently. ‘It’s only to be expected. Come on, I’m excited about seeing inside this cottage.’

Saffy glances back towards the road, her big brown eyes darting about, like a scared puppy’s, but then she turns to Lorna, her mouth in a tight line and nods.

Tom lets them in through the arched front door and into a small hallway with beams overhead and stripped floorboards. He stands back to allow them over the threshold first. She notices that Tom’s head is only inches away from the beams. He has a proud look on his face and she remembers Saffy’s words in the car. ‘It looks gorgeous, Tom,’ she says, glancing around at the Farrow & Ball-painted walls and the sanded floorboards.

‘So the living room’s through there,’ says Saffy, pointing to a wooden door to their left, ‘and at the end of the hallway is the kitchen. It’s small, but there’s room for a table. Just about. And . . .’

But Lorna has turned instinctively to her right, to the room just before the stairs. She pushes the door open and a flash of memory explodes in her mind. A sewing machine. The sound of a pedal, the clack-clack-clack. She blinks rapidly. When her vision clears she can see there is no sewing machine. Just a desk and a computer under the window, the walls decorated with ugly brown and yellow old-fashioned paper.