‘Oh, nothing, really. It just escalated and he walked off in a huff. Got the bus home and left me to sit in the pub by myself. So I had another drink and left. But then I encountered this chancer. Thought he could take me on. But he underestimated me.’

‘Jack!’ I cry, exasperated. ‘You’ve been beaten up.’

He tries to smile but with his swollen lip it’s more of a grimace. ‘You should see the other guy.’

Margot is fussing around Jack when we arrive, asking if he’d like some ice for his eye. It reminds me of what she used to be like, when Heather and I were friends, always so motherly. Caring. Making sure everybody was okay. I always thought Heather and Flora were so lucky to have her. Even then I could tell she was different from my mum. And it’s not as if my mum didn’t care. She loved me – loves me – I know that. It’s just that she was preoccupied and busy a lot of the time, working as a secretary at the one and only legal firm in the high street. At weekends and in the evenings she was either fitting in the chores she hadn’t managed to do during the week or sorting out my grandmother, who was in a care home in Clevedon, or going on dates. She was happy that I was out of her hair for a few hours. Anything for a quiet life. That was her motto. Margot was just more present, I suppose. But she had her brother Leo around to help. And she worked from home.

I wonder who’s around for Margot now that Heather is in a coma. It doesn’t look like Adam is much company, from the little I’ve seen of him. The words ‘gruff’ and ‘unsympathetic’ spring to mind. And I heard Leo moved away not long after Flora disappeared. Even then I couldn’t help overhearing the rumour that he must have had something to do with it, and the gossip surrounding his ‘penchant for young girls’ because one of his old girlfriends had been much younger than him. I remember her, Hayley, tall and slim with long, wheat-coloured hair.

Margot ushers us into the living room. It hasn’t changed much: still the same old sofas (although with different throws covering them), the old-fashioned heavy walnut furniture and the cosy open fireplace. In the corner, by the French windows, there is a box of toys that must belong to Heather’s little boy. I still find it hard to believe that she’s a wife and mother. I can’t imagine ever being either.