‘Yes. It’s got good schools. That always drives up the price. And golf courses – two, actually. Plus, it’s rural, but still on the Tube.’

‘So I saw. It’s got it all, hasn’t it? Quite the perfect location.’ Grace’s tone was acidic. ‘You and your perfect husband certainly picked the perfect place. He must be doing very well to afford it. From what I saw, places like these don’t go for under a million. Some up to two.’

‘Oh, we didn’t pay that!’ I looked fondly around the kitchen. ‘This was a doer-upper! Needed a lot of love and attention. Trust me. That’s the only way we could afford it.’

Grace sucked her cheeks in. ‘So I hear.’ She paused and suddenly I knew what was coming. I swallowed.

‘The woman in the estate agent told me the story,’ Grace continued. ‘I had no idea. It’s so sad!’

‘I know. It is.’ I pushed the chair back and stood. ‘Right. I should get on.’

‘Where are you going?’ Grace said. ‘I’ve only just got back. Sit down. Have a drink with me.’

She jumped up and dispensed me a glass from the wine box. ‘Here. Cheers.’

I drank deeply. Half the glass in one go. After the Sancerre it tasted dreadful.

‘So, about that girl.’ Grace shivered. ‘I don’t know if I could have bought this place – knowing that.’ She paused. ‘She’s buried in the graveyard here. St Michael’s, is it? Behind the High Street?’

I nodded. ‘I believe so.’

‘Have you been?’ Grace asked. ‘To see it?’

‘What?’

‘The grave.’

‘No.’

Grace sighed. ‘Maybe we should go. I kind of feel like…’ She breathed in deeply and let it go slowly. ‘Those toys. They were probably hers, weren’t they? And the little clothes? It puts a whole new spin on it. The parents must have left in such a rush. They moved abroad, apparently. Couldn’t bear to live here anymore. Too many memories, I suppose. They probably forgot those boxes up in the attic. It’s not as if they would have needed them, really, is it?’ She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘Where I’m sleeping, it would have been her room, wouldn’t it? It’s odd to think of them being back in there.’

I turned away, my throat thick with sadness. Of course I’d known the story about the girl of the house. It was one of the reasons I hadn’t the heart to throw away her old furniture. She’d been killed in a tragic accident. I knew the story, but I chose not to focus on it. When I pictured the girl, I imagined her growing up here: happy and full of life and hope and plans. She’d been eighteen when she died; her whole life ahead of her.