We sit in silence for a moment. Carrie is savoring her coffee, and I am trying not to see a wild-eyed young girl sitting cross-legged on Carrie’s bed, smoke curling up from a lit cigarette. Though perhaps Carrie was right: perhaps it really was left over by the previous renters. But who smokes leaning out of an upstairs window? A rebellious teen perhaps? Though not the teenager that I was—like Carrie, I could never stomach the smell, so my rebellions came in other forms—but surely a teen would be camped in one of the smaller bedrooms? Then perhaps a parent of a young child, who is trying to quit. My own mother smoked, though not with Carrie; she quit when she was pregnant with her. She knew more about the ill effects then, I suppose. Or she cared more. I look across at Carrie again with so little of our mother in her features, and suddenly I’m wondering how much common ground we really share: three quarters of our DNA is different, and all of our upbringing. Surely we are far more different than alike—can we really find a way to connect after all these years? I cast around for something to say, something to distract me from the unease that has anchored itself around my breastbone, and catch sight of the kitchen clock: quarter past eight. If Carrie was cutting it fine before, she must surely be late now. “I can drive you to the station if you like.”

“Oh, would you?” She brightens. “That would be great. I should get in the shower.” She pushes back her chair, taking the coffee mug with her, then stops in the doorway, frowning. “Your meeting with the lawyer isn’t until this afternoon, right? What are you going to do with your morning?”

What I want to do is get some good quality sleep, but I don’t say that. “It’s not till quarter past three. I thought I might go up to the hotel this morning. Take a look at the health club the estate agent told us about.” She doesn’t need to know that priority number one is actually to call a locksmith. Preferably one that can do the job this very day.

“If they have spinning classes, maybe I’ll join too.”

I am momentarily thrown. “You like spinning?” I would have picked her for a yoga enthusiast: all contorted positions and inner peace.

“Nope, not really. But yoga always seems like a cop-out, and I hate running with a passion, so . . .”