‘I’m sorry,’ says Jessica, in a small voice from the table behind her. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Heather.’

Margot’s shoulders tighten. How can she tell if Jessica is genuine? She wants to reply with a caustic retort but she doesn’t have the energy. Instead her shoulders sag under the weight of her worry. ‘Tea?’ she says instead, as the kettle starts to whistle.

Jessica nods. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ She looks wistful as she stares out of the window. ‘I regret how our friendship ended,’ she says. ‘Me and Heather, I mean.’

‘You dumped her when she needed you most.’ Margot’s jaw hurts with all the vitriol she’s tried hard to suppress. She places a cup in front of Jessica too roughly, so that the tea spills over the top and gathers in the saucer. She doesn’t apologize.

Jessica fiddles with her saucer, her eyes downcast. ‘I know. And I regret it. It was a tough lesson. I don’t have many …’ she sighs, still not looking at Margot ‘… female friends.’

This doesn’t surprise Margot in the least.

Margot takes her teacup and sits opposite Jessica. The girl looks worn out. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is drawn. Margot takes a sip of her tea, then asks after Jessica’s mother. She’s surprised to see Jessica’s face fall at the mention of Simone. Has she put her foot in it? Did Simone die?

But then Jessica says quietly, ‘Mum remarried and moved to Spain about ten years ago. I see her once or twice a year.’

Only once or twice a year. Margot can’t imagine that. Since losing Flora she’s made sure to see Heather as often as she can, which is easy as they all live in such close proximity, although she tries to give them their space. When Heather and Adam married they moved into the stone cottage on the edge of the caravan site and did it up, decorating the walls with pale pastel colours, Heather sanding down furniture in the shabby-chic style she loves so much. She can still remember Heather’s excitement when she painted the nursery while heavily pregnant with Ethan. She’d been too scared to do it before she got to thirty-five weeks, worried about jinxing it.

‘I can’t imagine that,’ Margot mumbles. To her shame she feels her eyes well with tears, thinking of life without Heather. If she gains consciousness she’ll be incarcerated for murder. She’ll lose her either way. No. That’s not true. Because at least in prison they’d see each other weekly, sitting across a table from each other in a sterile visitors’ room. They’d still be able to talk and confide, maybe even laugh. She’d still have her funny, sensitive, beautiful daughter.