Hollie nods, but Chloe knows this look. She’d expected it. Chloe doesn’t understand why Hollie doesn’t feel more sorry for them. She had hoped she might ask more questions. But she can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, and now inside Chloe feels that familiar sting of shame for even mentioning it.

‘And that’s all you’ve been up to?’ Hollie says.

Chloe tries not to sound too disappointed at the change of subject. ‘Oh . . . well, this and that.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, like I said . . .’

Hollie nods and puts down her teaspoon. Chloe hopes she’ll ask her more about them now.

‘Isn’t there something you can do? Appeal or something? Have you contacted HR? I mean, they can’t just fire you.’

‘I know, but it’s different – on a newspaper, I mean. Different rules apply; it’s like kitchens.’

‘What about kitchens?’

‘Well, chefs and stuff, nothing’s done by the book. You do something wrong once and you’re out. It’s the same in newsrooms.’

‘But there are procedures, Chloe, you need to speak to HR. You can’t just get sacked for taking time off, you’re meant to get warnings. And Nan was missing, for God’s sake, the police were involved, and it’s not like you didn’t let them know. How can they be so uncaring?’

‘I know but—’

‘It’s against the law. Do you want me to have a word?’

‘No.’ Her eyes quickly meet Hollie’s.

Her friend looks affronted.

‘I mean, no, no thanks,’ Chloe adds.

There’s a pot of brown sugar on the table between them, a silver spoon sticking out of it. On the end of the handle is a picture of a yellow beach and blue sea, Jersey written underneath. Chloe picks up the sugar on the spoon, letting the granules drop back into the pot, grains of sweet sand. She’s back on a Cornish beach, conjuring up a memory of sand pouring through her tiny fingers, building sandcastles with Granddad, Nan and Stella, just like in that photograph, shoulders turning pink in the sun, knees in warm sand, donkeys walking up and down the beach beside them. Is it any wonder people want to escape their lives every summer? Pretend to be someone else, if only for two weeks?

She looks up at Hollie. ‘Can we talk about something else?’ Chloe says. She wonders whether Maureen and Patrick ever took a holiday with Angie. She can’t remember reading anything in the cuttings. If Hollie wasn’t sitting here, she would take out her notepad and pen and write down a reminder to have a look.

‘Of course, but I hope you’ve signed up with some job agencies. Even if you just got some temp work while they sort all this out, it’d be better than hanging around in ceme—’

‘Can you imagine it, though? Losing a child?’ Chloe interrupts.

‘Sorry?’