Under the window is a wooden bench, silvered with age, that no one ever sits on. Its job is to look pretty and rustic, which I have a feeling might be a little pretentious, but I like it, so I don’t care. I don’t see its two occupants until it’s too late to turn round. And where would I have gone anyway?

‘Hello,’ Cora calls, as I cross the street. ‘Now, I know you said not to come, but I couldn’t sit still.’ As if to prove her point, she’s up and off the bench, hurrying towards me. ‘Have you heard anything?’

Tim strolls over, looking handsome and a little seedy, with his stubbly chin and floppy hair; the ageing public schoolboy. Lottie runs to him and he scoops her into a bear hug. I feel a little envious. I could do with a hug right now, and Tim’s greetings are so enthusiastic.

Tim is like Nick, a tall man with broad shoulders. Cora is around five foot six, with thick, wavy blonde hair. She always wears trousers – I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress or a skirt, even at a function – and favours expensive fabrics and classics. Cora in the winter is all muted cashmeres, in the summer subtle beach tones; white trousers with stone-coloured tops that drape and pleat in a way that flatters her figure. Today she’s wearing a calf-length, silver quilted coat. They both have wheelie cases – his black, hers navy. I try to hide my dismay, but Tim gives me a wry smile.

‘No, but I’m about to call the police now,’ I reply. ‘You really shouldn’t have come all this way.’ It’s a good three-hour drive from their village.

‘We thought we could make ourselves useful,’ Cora says. ‘Presumably you have work? We can stay here in case something happens.’

I stand at the gate, my bag clutched against my stomach. ‘Well …’

‘Nick might turn up while you’re out and need our help.’

‘That’s very kind, but if he’s in trouble I’m not sure he’d appreciate a welcoming committee. He definitely wouldn’t want any fuss.’

‘I’m not fussing,’ she says. ‘I’m concerned for my son.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You’re looking well, Grace.’ The slight tightening around her lips tells me it isn’t a compliment.

‘I’ve been at work,’ I say, stung. ‘I’m wearing make-up. I’ve barely slept.’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean anything by it, dear. I’m sure you’re worried sick.’

‘Worried and confused,’ I say.

Tim pats my shoulder. ‘Of course you are.’