I reach the school entranceway and follow the other parents into the visitors’ car park and through a set of double gates. These school grounds aren’t as pretty as Wareham Park. St Margaret’s seems to be all bricks and concrete. There’s hardly any greenery at all, which is a shame. I suddenly realise that it’s a mistake to come right into the school grounds, as there are an awful lot of doorways and gates, any of which Bella could come out of. It would be so easy to miss her. I’d be better off standing outside the main gates. That way I should be able to get a look at every child who leaves the school.

The bell shrills long and loud, making me jump. Quickly, I make my way back out of the playground, through the car park and out onto the narrow pavement. I wait for a gap in traffic and cross to the opposite side of the road, watching the gates intently and waiting. I’m not prepared for the sheer volume of people streaming out of the grounds. Plus, everyone is so bundled up against the weather, I can barely see their faces, let alone hair and eye colour.

I tell myself to calm down. That I’ll know her when I see her. There’s a row of dogs tied up on the railings outside school and a congregation of parents and children gather in a cluster to pet or untie them. It’s blocking my view of the gates and making me even more anxious. I glance around, wondering if there’s a place to stand that might afford me a better view, but wherever I am, it will be impossible to keep an eye on every individual child. Now I’ve glanced away from the gates, I’m paranoid I might have missed Bella.

And then I see her.

Tall, willowy, beautiful. Surrounded by three tween girls who seem to bask in her glow. I can’t believe I was worrying about not being able to spot her. No one could mistake her. My heart slows and I can barely breathe. That girl is my Holly. I’m sure of it. I’m convinced of it. She turns left out of the gates, waves goodbye to two of the girls and links arms with the other, who’s small and slender with long blonde hair that reaches right down her back. Both girls’ skirts are hitched up way too short – I’m sure they’ll unroll them before they get home, because I don’t know any parent who’d let their eleven- or twelve-year-old daughter walk around like that.