Sometimes, when he allowed himself to think about his good fortune, Jamie felt sick. This wasn’t because he was a masochist who craved misfortune and pain, but because he was so scared something might go wrong. He had never done anything particularly wonderful – he didn’t think he had too many credits in the karma bank. He had never saved anyone’s life, and he only gave money to charity occasionally: usually when someone rattled a tin in his face. He had never made any great contribution to world peace, unless you counted that time he broke up a fight between Paul and some moron who had given them grief in the pub. Then again, he had never done anything very bad, either. He had never broken the law, other than speeding a few times and smoking the odd spliff. He had never been unfaithful to any of his girlfriends and he had never stabbed anyone in the back, literally or metaphorically. He wasn’t bitchy or two-faced or deceitful.

Because of this neutral position – a position he was sure most people held – he was convinced that sooner or later his good luck would have to be balanced out by a spate of bad luck. Kirsty told him he was crazy. ‘So if you won a million in the Lottery you’d then be convinced that it would be stolen from you?’

‘Either that or something worse would happen. Like I’d get cancer. Or have a horrible accident.’

She shook her head. ‘God, you’re so morbid.’

‘I think the word is paranoid.’

‘Oh, look, it’s Lucy.’

Jamie turned to look. They had just back from the supermarket.

Their neighbour was coming up the road in her care assistant’s uniform, her head down, the sun beating on the back of her neck. She reached Jamie and Kirsty’s car and stopped, clearly waiting for them to get out.

‘Do you think we should apologise for disturbing her the night we moved in, when Chris asked us to turn the music down?’ Kirsty whispered. She had yet to meet Lucy. She worked odd shifts, and she assumed Lucy did too, so their paths hadn’t crossed.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t get the impression they were too upset about it. And we turned it down straight away.’

They got out of the car and Kirsty came around to the pavement, offering a smile to her neighbour.

‘Hello, I’m Kirsty. You must be Lucy.’

Lucy nodded. The transforming smile she had shown Jamie materialised, lighting up her face. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. It’s nice to have somebody my own age move in.’

Kirsty was seven or eight years younger than Lucy, but she didn’t point that out. She didn’t really know what to say.