But Mum and Dad have never liked the estate. They’ve always said how rough it is, and how it’s gone downhill since the seventies, when it was first built. They were really upset when I failed my eleven plus and didn’t get into the grammar, and since the next-best school was two bus rides and a ten-minute walk away, I ended up here, with all the kids from the estate.

If only I’d passed that stupid test, I’d never have met Alice. She’d still be alive today.

27

NOW

“Love is like wood,” Mum says when I tell her that Ross and I had an argument yesterday. “It expands and contracts depending on the weather. You have to allow for some shrinkage every now and again.”

She’s always coming out with little sayings like this. She’s right, though. I’ve been expecting Ross and me to carry on as though nothing has changed, as though the “loved-up phase” we’ve been enjoying since we met would last forever.

“You’ve been through some pretty major life changes recently,” Mum says. “It’s a new relationship, remember. You’re still getting to know each other, learning how to adapt to each other’s moods. You have to work at these things, darling. They don’t just happen.”

I haven’t told her why we rowed. Who we were rowing about. Not yet. I’m working my way up to it. Maybe Ross is right and I do need to speak to a counselor. Someone to help me sift through this maelstrom of emotions and find a way through. It won’t be like it was before, with Angela Harris. But can I really face being questioned about the past?

We chat for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. The phone rings almost as soon as I’ve put it down.

“Mum? What did you forget?”

But it’s a stranger’s voice in my ear. A woman with an Australian accent.

“Hello. May I speak to Lizzie Molyneux, please?” Whoever she is, she’s actually managed to pronounce my name correctly.

Maybe it’s someone from the community midwife team.

“Speaking.”

“This is Ruby Orchard. You won’t know me, but I’d very much like to speak to you about something.” She has that rising inflection at the end of each sentence. “I’m not trying to sell you anything, I promise. I just need five minutes of your time.”

“How can I help you?” She’s lying about not trying to sell me anything. It’s the cold caller’s favorite line. Ross would have hung up by now, but I always feel a little sorry for them. It must be a soul-destroying way to earn a living.

“I’m writing a piece about Elodie Stevens, the poor girl that got killed by a train? I understand your friend, Alice—”