“Is it that reporter again? You don’t have to talk to her, you know. It’s entirely your decision.”

“This isn’t about the reporter. I’ve not heard from her again.”

“So what is it?” she says.

I hesitate. “It’s…well, it’s a bit delicate, actually. I think I’d rather talk face-to-face. When’s your next day off?”

“Wednesday.”

My heart sinks. I’m impatient for answers now. Still, I don’t suppose a couple of days will make much difference.

“I’ll be at Greenwich on Wednesday morning,” she says. “Why don’t we meet somewhere for lunch or a late coffee?”

—

When Wednesday comes around, it’s gray and damp. So much for flaming June. Catherine and I are sitting on a leather sofa, sipping cappuccinos in the Waterstones café.

I clear my throat. “I saw my parents at the weekend.”

She widens her eyes. “How are they?”

“They’re fine, but…look, can I ask you something?” I watch her face closely for her reaction. “Do you know if our parents ever met? I mean, before Alice and I did.”

She puts her coffee down. “What makes you ask that?” she says.

“It was something I found. A card. From your mum to mine—well, from your parents to my parents, but it’s always the woman who writes the cards, isn’t it? She was congratulating my mum on her pregnancy. And she was pregnant, too, with Alice. She sounded so happy, so excited.”

Catherine nods, slowly. “Yes. Our mothers were best friends.” Hearing her confirm it makes my head swim.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

She looks embarrassed. “Possibly. Probably. If we saw more of each other, which I hoped we would. I thought you might even know by now, to be honest.”

“They must have stopped being friends at some point after the card was sent and before I was born,” I say. “Because there’s no congratulations card from them for my birth. Only on the pregnancy itself, and they would have sent another card when I was born if they were still friends, wouldn’t they?”

“That’s right,” Catherine says. “They’d fallen out by then. And then, of course, your parents moved away.”

“Moved away?”

“Yes, to wherever it was you grew up. Beechwood Avenue, wasn’t it?”

“Birchwood Avenue.” Our eyes meet briefly. Catherine looks away first. I’m surprised she doesn’t remember. She stood outside my window in the middle of the night enough times after Alice died. But there’s no point dwelling on that. Not now.

“So, did your mum and dad use to live near them in Bishop Street, then?” I ask her.

“Bishop Street? No, what makes you think that?”

“Because that’s where my parents lived before they had me.”

Catherine looks puzzled. “No, they lived on the estate, in Riley Road. They were neighbors.”