She looked calmly at Norah.

‘Do you remember how much you girls loved this book?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Gryffindor forever!’ said Norah, laughing dully. ‘But what—’

Monika blinked a few tears away.

‘There’s no good place for a thing like this,’ she said. ‘I mean, cutlery belongs in the cutlery drawer, insurance documents belong in a folder in the study. Holiday photos belong in an album. But where do you keep your daughter’s suicide note?’

Norah didn’t understand what Monika was trying to say. Monika hesitated for a second, then opened the book. It fell open in the middle and there was an envelope between the pages. Monika took it out and hesitated again for a moment before holding it out to Norah. The handwriting was instantly recognisable—that big loopy M. But it didn’t say Mum or Monika; it said Mother.

Norah felt sick.

‘You got one too,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Me, my husband, Sven…Probably everyone she loved.’

Norah felt her mouth hanging open.

‘But the police said—’

‘It was none of their business,’ Monika said firmly, pressing her lips together.

‘Do you know what borderline personality disorder is?’ she asked at length and Norah nodded, although the words sounded very far away.

‘Valerie was undergoing treatment, Norah,’ Monika said. ‘She didn’t talk about it and neither did we. Not to anyone, not even to you. Maybe that was a mistake. I’m sure people deal differently with these things nowadays. But that’s how it was back then.’

Carefully, very carefully, she slipped the letter back into the book and put it down beside her.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Norah,’ said Monika. ‘It wasn’t mine either. Not just mine, anyway. Valerie was sick.’

She sighed.

‘People with borderline suffer from unbearable feelings and anxiety. A lot of them harm themselves or attempt suicide.’

She was silent for a moment.

‘There’s a common pattern in the relationships of people with borderline. Do you know what it is?’

Norah shook her head.

‘First they worship their friends and partners. Then, at the slightest provocation, they start to demonise them. For them there’s only black or white, good or evil.’

Monika sighed again.

‘If you’d talked to me,’ she added, ‘I could have told you eighteen years ago.’

Norah didn’t reply. Something in her chest had come adrift and was fluttering around wildly.

‘Have you ever spoken to anyone about it?’ Monika asked.

Norah shook her head.

‘No,’ she said, ‘never.’

‘All these years, you’ve thought you were to blame?’

Norah didn’t know what to say or feel. She said nothing.

Then she said, ‘Valerie was a wonderful girl.’

‘Yes,’ said Monika. ‘She was.’

‘I ought to be going,’ Norah said, getting up. Monika got up too.

‘May I give you some advice?’ she asked and Norah looked at her.

‘Answer the letter.’

66

When Norah arrived back in Vienna late that evening, it was mild, almost spring-like. She had spent the best part of the day on the motorway and was so tired she felt numb all over. Luckily there was an empty parking space right outside the flat. As she parked the car, a loud beep announced an incoming text. She registered with annoyance that part of her was still hoping for a reply from Alex, but it was only Monika, thanking her for coming. Norah wrote back and texted Sandra, too, to let her know she was home safe and sound. (Sandra’s dad had died in a car crash and she didn’t like to think of her friends on the road.) Then she unlocked the front door and began to trudge up the stairs. Someone was coming down. Norah stopped when she realised who it was. Theresa.