I keep periodically checking out the window, hoping to see Davina walking across the road. A car speeds past, the driver clearly in a rush. How irresponsible to drive that way in an estate filled with children. Ignorant man. I note it was a silver Mondeo, the one that’s often parked close to Davina’s house. I bet that was Wayne.

It’s another half an hour before Davina knocks. I open the door, but she doesn’t make a move to come in.

‘I think we should pay Carl a visit,’ she says. ‘Grab your car keys. We’ve got two hours before you need to pick up the boys.’ Davina walks towards my car. I suddenly feel motivated; I want to get to the bottom of this. And if it means Davina helping, then so be it. I do as she instructs.

The car journey to town passes in a flurry of conversation. I even confide in her about Nick’s visit and how I stupidly told him my suspicions about Barb. And then I tell her about Leo’s nightmare about the man at the end of his bed, watching him. It’s actually quite liberating talking to someone outside of my friends about it. She doesn’t suggest poltergeists are at play. She doesn’t imply I’m stressed and that all of this in my head. I think she believes me that someone is coming into the house. The relief I experience is overwhelming.

‘Thank you, Davina,’ I say. The dreaded prickle begins in my eyes. I blink rapidly.

‘No. Thank you. I don’t get to socialise much. Just being out of the house is wonderful. I’m so used to being stuck indoors most of the day.’

I take this opportunity to mention her husband.

‘Does Wayne work from home too?’

She doesn’t respond. I quickly glance at her. Her face is solemn; the downward tapering of her outer eyes giving rise to her sad appearance. She realises I’m looking at her and quickly smiles.

‘Oh, sometimes. It depends,’ she says brightly. It’s a false brightness.

‘Must be hard when you’re trying to focus on writing, having him under your feet.’

‘No, not really. We keep to our spaces.’

It’s an odd thing to say. But I press on. ‘What does he do?’

The atmosphere becomes tense. I’m conscious of Davina’s discomfort. It’s confusing as it’s not like I’ve asked something personal. Out the corner of my eye, I note she’s twisting the edge of her cardigan around and around in her fingers. Christ, what does Wayne do? Work for MI5?

‘Accountant,’ she says, finally. I’m disappointed; I was sure she was going to say something far more interesting.

‘Oh, that’s … a good job,’ I manage, knowing I just sound condescending.