The pictures had the faded look of seventies shots. There was her mother as a young woman, so slim she would almost disappear if she turned sideways, stylish in flared trousers and a silk blouse, always with a cigarette in hand. One of her good days, when she laughed and smiled, flitted about the house like a butterfly. Invited people over, too many for the downstairs lounge, people from Elle’s father’s work and the village and anyone she’d ever met. Not one of the bad ones, where she screamed and threw things, the time she’d cut off Elle’s hair while she slept because it was ‘slutty’, the time she’d shut the piano lid on her hands to stop the noise. Elle liked the cigarette one because it was proof, if anyone ever asked. See, she smoked all the time. It’s hardly a surprise what happened, is it? Her father, whose face she could barely remember, so little had he been around. And Sebby, his dark eyes under a straight fringe, staring up at her. It was Sebby she ached for most. Too easy to imagine a little boy of her own, looking just like him, calling her Mummy. He would have been thirty-four now. Perhaps a father himself. Then a later picture, herself stiff and formal in a piano competition, long dark hair down her back. It would have been 1992. One of the last ever taken.

A noise made her jump. Was he back already? No, it was the noisy family next door, manoeuvring out one of their many cars, music blaring. She pursed her mouth in annoyance, and tidied the box away, creeping downstairs as guiltily as an addict. She hoped he would be home on time that night – she needed him close, to feel he was solid and alive and still hers. But seven o’clock came, and then eight, and then nine, and still she was alone.

Suzi

Suzi

‘Tell me again what happened,’ Nick said, pacing in front of me, grim-faced. I wondered what time it was; somewhere around ten, I thought. The whole day lost in a panic.

I was on the sofa, my ankle propped up on a cushion. ‘He just disappeared. I let him off the lead like always, but he was . . . gone. I don’t know.’ Tears pricked my eyes, yet more guilt. I had lost Nick’s dog, on top of everything. Poor Poppet had done nothing but love us, adore us, and I’d lost him. ‘Then I slipped and hurt myself. If Nora hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened. I didn’t even have my phone, it’s died again.’ Nick had been out searching for hours, calling Poppet’s name, and had come back frozen and angry. Very angry with me. ‘I’m sure he’s just run off,’ I pleaded. ‘He’ll find his way.’