It had probably been a rather gushing letter, quite out of character. He’d written it just a few days after Kaz was born, overwhelmed with love and wonder and sleep deprivation. Holly had never mentioned it. Not when they met for the first time at that playgroup, not at all the school plays and Christmas concerts over the years. He’d taken that as kindness – as her understanding that he didn’t want to make a big deal of things. That he was a little embarrassed.

There was just that one moment, at the wedding. Kaz was in his suit, looking even younger, somehow, than he would have done if he’d worn his school uniform, and Rosie was looking pretty in that simple, elegant dress that had once belonged to Holly herself. They’d finished the main course and were waiting for dessert. Rosie’s sweet laugh echoed around the room. Kaz had pulled himself together after crying his way through Cris’s extended speeches. Karl hadn’t given a speech though, he hadn’t said much at all – sometimes he didn’t know what to say to anyone – but he had smiled around the table and felt proud of his son. And throughout it all, Holly had been seated next to him at the high table, watching the ceremony with a knowing look on her face. Then, quite unexpectedly, she’d turned her eyes to his, and whispered to him. ‘You did well,’ she’d said, making sure that no one else could hear. And then she’d winked.

Eva keyed in the phone number for the third time, and looked at the string of digits on the screen without pressing call. It was strange, how anxious she felt – she was not normally precious about making phone calls. It probably wouldn’t be his number at all, not after all these years. But if it was, she had no idea what to say.

Usually, she would have been direct – told them exactly who she was, listed her questions, requested information. And usually, in response, they were polite and accommodating, and sent her everything that she asked for, together with a promotional pen or fridge magnet. But today … She wondered if she should pretend to be a reporter or something, a researcher. Was there a way to make him think she was on his side? Quentin. Perhaps he would let his guard down if she lied, and then she’d be more likely to see a crack, a hint at something buried away from the public eye.

She pressed the call button. She’d work out the best approach once she heard his voice, play it by ear. Perhaps she should hang up.

‘Yes?’

The man’s voice was breathy and impatient. She hesitated.

‘Hello?’ he said again, a slight irritation creeping into his tone.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Hi, my name’s Eva—’

‘Who?’

‘Eva. I’m looking for Quentin?’

‘Yes, this is James.’