She laid out by the pool until mid-afternoon, wondering what the hell had happened to them. She was deep in mourning over baby Jake, and where was her husband? Here comforting her? Not on your life. He was off, burying his pain in business. Nula thought of her mother and wondered whether she ought to try to get in touch, tell her what had happened. Suddenly, stupidly, she really missed her. They hadn’t spoken in years. But she didn’t think she could bear to talk about it anyway. Any conversation that headed in that direction usually ended with a monumental crying jag that could go on for days. Sometimes she felt that her grip on sanity was hanging by a thin thread; any additional strain was likely to break it.

Even Milly wasn’t much of a comfort to her, as a daughter should be. Nula thought with guilty envy of Jill and Terry’s girl Belle, who was self-confident and pretty as a new spring day. Then she thought of poor Milly, who’d inherited all the Perkins genes. Milly wasn’t a girly girl, not at all. She had no interest in clothes shopping. She was shy, studious, uninterested in make-up. She avoided boys. Didn’t bother with pretty clothes. Meanwhile, Jill got a pretty, outgoing, self-confident little princess called Belle. It wasn’t fair.

At three Nula showered and had coffee. Then she took the photocopy of the adoption form and went back into Charlie’s office – the sickening varnish smell was gone now. She closed the windows and took down the Yellow Pages, sat at the desk and checked out the government agency’s address and phone number.

It was a different address. A different phone number.

That was odd.

She sat staring at the Yellow Pages entry for a long moment, then she pulled the phone toward her, tapped in 141 and then dialled the number from the Yellow Pages. It was picked up straight away.

‘Good afternoon, who can I connect you with?’ asked a brisk receptionist.

‘Oh!’ Nula was taken off-guard. ‘Well, I . . .’

‘Which department?’ snapped the woman.

‘I want to talk to a Mrs Candice Bushell,’ Nula glanced at the photostat form. ‘She’s Chief Adoption Officer.’

The receptionist was silent for a beat.

‘I’m sorry, we don’t have any Candice Bushell here,’ she said.

Nula looked at the phone in bewilderment. ‘But you must do. Unless she’s left . . . ? She came to our house. Over five years ago. I spoke to her on the phone only yesterday . . .’

‘I’ve worked in this office for over twenty years. Trust me, no Candice Bushell has ever worked here.’

Nula found that she was gasping. Her chest felt tight. She couldn’t draw air down into her lungs.