She glanced up at the electronic board on the platform at New Cross. Noting her train wasn’t due for seventeen minutes, she lowered herself on to one of the cold metal benches along the concourse. For a Saturday afternoon, the platform at New Cross Gate station was fairly quiet, and only a few other passengers were scattered around. Cantankerous clouds stretched over the huge Sainsbury’s megastore next door. Hoping she wouldn’t be observed, Alexa opened her phone camera, turned it to selfie mode and squinted into the screen. She grimaced at the face in the camera, wishing she didn’t look so washed out. As she was squinting into her screen, it lit up: Dad. She closed the camera and opened the text.

Can’t wait to see you, love – will be out all afternoon but back by the evening. Let’s open a bottle of red!!! Xxx

Thank goodness she had keys to her father’s flat. In her bag, besides the keys, she had a spare set of gym kit, PJs, her make-up and a few changes of work clothes. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be exiled from Rokeby Close.

She leaned back in the cold chair, the memory of the morning gnawed at her. She and Ben had parted sweetly but a little awkwardly; she couldn’t help imagining the morning that should have been: saying goodbye with a proper kiss, after coffee. Perhaps they might even have gone for brunch at the small cafe with the sticky tables, exorbitant prices and staff who wore tiny beanies on their heads and always forgot your order the first time around. Or perhaps, Alexa reflected evenly, it might still have been awkward. Perhaps he might have shuffled out early that morning, without so much as a backward glance. Eight minutes now. She did really hope he’d text. She really, really hoped Ellen hadn’t ruined everything. As she was settling into this anxiety, a pre-prepared announcement rang out from loudspeakers and Alexa glowered at the interruption.

And then there was Elias! She worried their landlord would charge them thousands of pounds to fix the house. Alexa supposed she should text the others to tell them not to panic about the email – she knew Ellen would, right now, be panicking – and that she was planning to enlist her father’s help to sort things out. She hunted through WhatsApp to find the underused house group – ‘49 Rokeby’, it was called, with house and sunshine emojis.

The last message had been sent on a Saturday in early March. (Alexa had been wondering if anyone had heard the doorbell ring that morning as she’d been expecting a parcel and the app had told her an abortive delivery had been attempted. There had been no answer.) She started tapping out a message.

Hey guys

She paused, without hitting send, watching the cursor flash, then started typing again.