‘Oh yeah, you’re right.’ She turns her attention to the blander sides as Suleyman returns. ‘Just some toast for me,’ she says, handing back the menu.

‘Without butter?’ Hollie prompts. ‘It’s probably best.’

‘Oh, yeah . . . without butter.’

Hollie orders a coffee and poached eggs on toast.

‘How’s the job search going?’ she asks when Suleyman’s gone.

‘Not bad, yeah,’ Chloe says. ‘I might have an interview lined up through one of those recruitment agencies.’

‘Oh yeah? Which one did you go for in the end?’

‘Oh . . . I . . . I can’t remember, I spoke to so many . . .’

‘Phil says he never heard from you about that job.’

‘Yeah, I just didn’t . . . it didn’t seem my kind of thing.’

‘It was filing, Chloe,’ Hollie says.

Chloe starts fiddling with the pot of ketchup; it’s one of those giant tomato ones, the ones with the dark green lid that are always clogged with congealed tomato sauce. Chloe has always thought they were impractical.

She sees Hollie biting the corner of her lip, glancing between Chloe and the menu. She’s looking down, her finger tracing the list of food as she speaks.

‘And what about Nan? How is she doing?’ Hollie asks.

‘Oh yeah, good. I’ve been visiting her.’

‘Chloe, I . . .’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to just dump her in that care home and—’

‘No, of course not, that’s not what I’m saying. I just think, well, maybe it all happened for a reason. Maybe it’s for the best.’

‘Anyway, what was it you were calling about? Just a catch-up?’ Chloe says, trying to take the heat out of the conversation, to veer Hollie into different territory.

‘Sorry?’

‘You said you’d been calling me?’

Hollie reaches down to the handbag at her feet. She rifles around inside before pulling out a newspaper cutting. It’s folded a couple of times, but Chloe can tell from the typeset it’s her newspaper, or at least it was. She knows what’s coming: the job pages, Hollie’s highlighter pen.

‘I was flicking through the jobs section, you know, having a look for you really – Phil’s old job is being advertised, but anyway – and I saw this.’

Hollie unfolds the paper and lays out a spread on the table in front of her, ironing out the creases with her fist. The archivist in Chloe winces. She doesn’t recognize it at first, but then Hollie flips the page so it’s the right way up.

‘It’s that couple, the one who lost their daughter, and I just thought it was such a coincidence because you only mentioned her the other day to me, do you remember? You said you were working on the story and I guessed this was it, this update and . . .’

As Chloe stares at the newspaper the rest of the cafe with its chequered red and white tablecloths retreats into the background.