Esther sighed a little wistfully and checked her mobile, finding nothing significant except a very welcome payment notification from her healthcare company client, and a thank-you note for the day from her parents. Not a murmur from Chris Mews, she noted with relief. Esther set her empty mug on the floor and closed her eyes as she tipped her head back against the soft velveteen cover, letting the biggest news of the day swim back into focus. Lucas remarrying. It was only right that he should deal with telling the children, and impossible to guess how they would feel. If there was any fallout, she would know soon enough. An image of the young German woman formed; a Queen Bee perched on her high-tech bicycle, toned and triumphant, calling the shots. Heidi from Heidelberg. Esther snorted, pushing herself out of the chair to see about the milk and the cat. Lucas and the woman were welcome to each other. All she had to do was rise high above it. Very high. And stay there.

Carmela’s porch light flicked on helpfully the moment she neared the door. Feeling like a trespasser, Esther gingerly turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. A faintly acrid, fishy smell greeted her, along with a décor that momentarily took her back to visits to her maternal grandparents as a little girl: faded, busy carpeting, tobacco-coloured walls, cumbersome square furniture, draped with crocheted blankets and stained antimacassars. As she ventured from room to room, however, the comparison quickly dissolved under the barrage of religious prints and trinkets arraigned across every wall and shelf of Carmela’s ground floor: bleeding Christs, tacky crucifixes, mournful Madonna figurines cradling rosaries seemed to track Esther’s every move, weighing down her heart on her neighbour’s behalf. The house was so dark, so heavy. There was no joy. Apart from the beloved pet, of course. The realisation flooded her with a fresh sense of urgency about the mission. Spotting a mixing bowl in the drainer, she filled it almost to the brim from the carton she had brought and set it down right next to the cat flap. Unable to locate a key for the back door, she then put the milk carton on the counter and dropped onto all fours, poking her head as far as she could through the flap and frantically emitting her best renditions of the cat-summoning squeaks she had heard so often through the wild tumbles of yellow roses.

Defeated, she checked upstairs, finding the same heavy furniture and furnishings, though the rooms were less cluttered and more peaceful. What tore at her heart, however, was the upright chair parked by every window, as if the world had become something to sit and watch rather than feel a part of. She carried on chirruping, checking inside wardrobes and under beds, and at one point warily lifting a counterpane to examine a lump that turned out to be a folded paisley dressing gown.