Margot takes her hand and examines the little gold ring. It’s identical to Heather’s, passed down through the family. Margot’s grandfather had been a bit of a snob and decided that their family’s crest needed to be immortalized in the shape of rings, even though he had no ancestral lineage or blood. Margot had worn his since she had handed hers to Heather, and Leo had given his own to Flora when she was a baby, saying he knew he’d never have kids and it was all a load of pretentious crap anyway that he didn’t want to be a part of. Margot had had to have it made smaller so that it would fit on Flora’s little finger when she had allowed her to wear it as a teenager. Heather hands it to her now and she studies it, looking for the very faint join. She reaches down to the floor to retrieve her reading glasses from her bag, slips them on and peers at the rings. Heather takes hers off, and Margot holds them in her palm. They are identical.

‘It’s exactly the same as mine, see? Too much of a coincidence we’d have the same family crest, isn’t it? I know it’s not some ancient coat of arms and that my great-granddad just wanted to say he had a family ring. But still. That’s Flora’s ring, isn’t it?’

Margot nods. Why hadn’t she noticed before that Heather was wearing Flora’s ring? If she had, she’d have questioned her about it. It might have prompted Heather to remember earlier. There are so many questions buzzing around her head that she can’t think straight for all the noise. Then she asks urgently, ‘What happened to my little girl? Tell me. I need to know.’

Heather opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by one of the nurses bustling into the room. It’s the one Margot has never taken to. Brenda. Skinny and upright with thin lips that refuse to smile. ‘Right,’ she says, clapping her hands and shooing Margot off the bed. ‘Time’s up, I’m afraid. It’s really late. You should have left at eight.’

In that moment Margot could quite cheerfully have throttled Brenda. ‘Can you just give us a minute, please?’ she says. ‘I need to talk to Heather.’

‘You can talk to her in the morning.’

‘But –’

‘Come on. Out.’

Margot catches her daughter’s eye. She’s waited eighteen years but she doesn’t think she has it in her to wait any longer.

Brenda touches Margot lightly on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, then,’ she says, in the kind of voice you’d use on a wayward child.

‘I’m sorry,’ mouths Heather, her expression one of panic.

Margot shakes her head. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be back first thing.’