We head north through South London, over Waterloo Bridge and up to the West End where we tip out into the noisy gaiety of Soho and saunter into Astra. It’s a long time since I’ve done anything like this, a long time since any of us have. The noise blasts us as we mince down the stairs on our silly heels, a heavy beat that vibrates through my body and lifts my spirits.

Cassie puts her mouth close to my ear. ‘Any news?’

I shake my head and pull away, get to the bar. We order luminous cocktails, cram round a tiny table, sharing squat, velvet-covered stools and yell at each other. I demolish a delicious, icy banana daiquiri, enjoying the intense hit of sweetness and alcohol.

Anna starts to sway in time to the music, glossy hair falling forward as she hunches her shoulders, closes her eyes and dips her head.

I stand up. ‘Want to hit the dance floor?’ I survey the group. ‘Anyone?’

They look at me oddly. No one expects me to be the life and soul.

The speculation begins when we sit down again, fresh drinks in our hands. My companions seem to think it’s acceptable to theorize, to suggest, to repeat anecdotes that are no more than urban myths, unaware that my mind has already covered every possible scenario. But even if it hadn’t, the onslaught feels like an attack.

‘Did you read that article about …’

‘God, how well do we know our husbands?’

‘What about old girlfriends? Have you checked none of them have been in touch?’

‘I heard about this girl, well, woman really …’

‘Grace, you mustn’t blame yourself …’

‘Do you think the police will want to talk to any of us?’

All this yelled above the pumping dance-floor beat. Some of it I don’t catch. I answer the questions, but they’re so intrusive that I begin to feel as though I’m under siege. The only person not part of the barrage is Anna. She’s quieter now, her energy apparently burnt off. From time to time I feel her eyes on me.

‘Was your sex life still good?’ Cherry says.

Granted, this is her party and she’s hammered, but that question is too much. I shout that I’m going to the loo and stagger off. A man comes out of the crowd, drunk and leering, putting himself in front of me, his hands spread wide, mouthing a question. Dance with me? I recoil instinctively, my ankle buckles on its high heel, and I go down, sprawling across the floor. Someone laughs, and Anna leaps to my rescue, pulling me up and helping me hobble to the cloakroom. She pushes me through the cloakroom doors.

I shut myself into a cubicle. Other people bang in and out, using the loos, gossiping through the partition walls, while I lean on my knees with my head in my hands.