I pull her into my arms. ‘Of course he does. He loves us both very much. I know he’ll be missing you a lot.’

She starts to cry, and I stroke her hair. Children don’t like uncertainty; they want to know what’s going to happen and when, and most of all, they want to know who’s in charge. I don’t have the answer to the first two questions, but the answer to the last has to be me, I am in charge, and I’m not going to let her down by spiralling into panic myself.

I chuck in a wash, fold away the dry clothes and cram Nick’s shirts into the ironing basket. We have a utility room; a source of amazement to me. In the tiny kitchen of the flat I shared with my mother, the washing machine was next to the fridge and the clothes horse was a constant feature, something pushed out of the way, bumped into, tipped over. When I moved into Gran’s council house, there was a bigger kitchen with a wooden clothes airer above the sink. The room was always dark because our clothes would block the light from the small window. She took me in after my school finally recognized that there was a reason I smelled unwashed, stole other kids’ snacks and was unable to concentrate, and she gave me a home, too, when Mum died. For all her grumpiness and complaints, I miss her. She could be very funny. Gran’s jaw would have dropped if she’d seen where I ended up. Banker’s wife. That was not supposed to be my destiny.

Lottie’s eyes follow me as she eats her toast. I try to look unworried, but she’s ten, not five, and she knows what the implications are of Nick popping out and not coming back.

‘Will you call the school if he comes home?’ she asks, as she stacks her plate into the dishwasher.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lottie. In fact …’ I pause. ‘Look, darling. I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything yet.’

She picks up my phone, glances at it and puts it down. ‘We could use code. You could ask them to get a message to me. You could say that my grandfather has pulled through his operation.’

She’s excited, imagining it happening, the drama of it.

‘Sorry, I don’t want people to know about this. Not yet at least. Not until we have more information. I don’t want people gossiping, when he might be back any minute.’

She looks at me, then nods her head.

‘Go on, up you go. Clean your teeth. Hannah’ll be here soon.’

I vacuum round upstairs and give the kitchen floor a sweep, then call Phillipa Travers, the office administrator at Nick’s work.