Everyone had been kind. Selena Hamilton, the lady below in Flat 4, had brought her food. Her mother’s ex-pupils and their parents had dropped round with flowers and commiserations. There were no relatives alive. Not that Natalia had known about, anyway, and that in itself made Eva feel alone. What would she do? The flat was only rented. Her mother had no money to speak of, which was why they had never moved, and Eva had no qualifications or prospects. She could teach piano, but that was about it. She couldn’t even sew.

One day, not long after the funeral, Ron had knocked on Eva’s door. He had brought her a box of Turkish Delight. The gesture, along with his shy kindness, had touched her. She had accepted his gift and they had talked. Their friendship had grown and become something more – until a silly disagreement had separated them.

She thought about that now. He had criticised her, said she shuttered her emotions. Shuttered. Was that the word he had used? Either way, he meant that she had a way of seeming absent even when physically present. She had taken umbrage, although it was true. And that last day, when they had planned to go to the common for a walk, she had still been resentful.

It was the furthest Eva had agreed to go since her mother’s funeral. Until then, she had only been to the hall to collect her post. She hadn’t even ventured to Ron’s flat.

Nothing had happened until they stepped onto the landing. Then the dizziness had come – a teetering sensation as if she were about to fall. She’d heard voices filtering up from the floor below. A door slamming. Music playing. It was all in her imagination, of course, but she had felt fear slinking through her bones, a familiar sense of darkness. She had tried to anchor herself in the present, the here and now, but it was hard and, terrified of giving herself away, she’d made an excuse to stay at home. The conversation had turned into an argument and then she’d sent him away.

It had been an episode. Like those she had had as a child when her mother would find her staring into space, more in a trance than in a daydream, as if she had dropped out of the world. It was literally like falling, although she didn’t know whether it was she who was falling, or the world about her.

Then, she had seen doctors and psychologists, taken tests, had checks and assessments. The professionals had gathered and discussed and compared notes. But no one had come up with anything other than a vague suggestion of post-traumatic stress, brought on by childhood shock: she’d seen her father knocked down by a bus, and watched her mother have a miscarriage – although she could remember neither event, and no amount of coaxing or cajoling could bring the memories back.