‘Yes, I … er, I just got a bit distracted,’ I say, sitting down at the table. ‘This salad looks lovely. Oh, now I feel really bad. You were supposed to have tonight off.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s just a bag of rocket with a bit of olive oil drizzled over,’ says Georgie, her words slurring. ‘This pasta is delicious, darling. Well done.’

Beside me, I notice Jack raise his eyebrow though I’m not sure if the expression is aimed at my tardiness or Georgie’s tipsiness. It’s clear she’s had a couple more glasses of wine while I’ve been upstairs.

‘Cheese?’ says Jack, offering me the dish.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it and sprinkling a teaspoonful over my pasta.

The food is comforting though all I can think of is the missed calls.

Oblivious, Georgie and Jack discuss the intruder.

‘It just means we tighten our security, that’s all,’ says Jack, after Georgie says she’ll find it hard to sleep tonight. ‘Starting with closing doors.’

He gets up from the table and, to my relief, closes and locks the French doors.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ says Georgie, grabbing her glass and taking a long draw of wine. ‘That’s madness, Jack. It’s a summer’s evening and we’re sitting right next to it. These hot flushes have been getting worse and I need the fresh air.’

‘Well, maybe if you didn’t knock back so much plonk the flushes would ease up,’ says Jack, gesturing to the wine.

‘Oh, so now you’re a gynaecologist, are you?’ says Georgie, stumbling over the word. ‘The hot flushes are down to my being perimenopausal and have nothing at all to do with having a glass or two of wine.’

‘And the rest,’ says Jack, though he mutters this under his breath so only I, sitting so close to him, can hear. ‘Anyway, we were talking about tightening our security. Vanessa, may I ask you to close your windows at night and lock the door behind you when you come back to the house?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, feeling rather unsettled by the serious tone he has taken. ‘I’ll be extra vigilant.’

‘Good girl,’ he says, with a brisk nod.

‘She’s not a girl, Jack,’ says Georgie, her eyes glazing. ‘She’s thirty-two years old.’

‘Apologies, Vanessa,’ says Jack, turning to me with a sheepish look. ‘You know what I meant. It’s funny but you’ll always be a little girl to me.’

‘Little Nessa,’ says Georgie.

She’s reaching the maudlin, nostalgic stage of drunkenness now. It’s making me feel even more on edge.

‘I’ll clear these,’ I say, getting up and taking the empty dishes over to the sink.

‘Thanks, darling, that was lovely,’ says Georgie, draining her glass. ‘See, I always said you could cook.’

I’m about to reply when there’s a loud hammering on the front door.